


Flint and Tinder

by skybone



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Development, Explicit Language, F/F, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Smut, but you know I never do unhappy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 03:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5852470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybone/pseuds/skybone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adaar. Cassandra. Popcorn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Haven

**Author's Note:**

> There's a lot of angst in this, mostly resulting from two people who are horrible at communication going at cross-purposes. Be warned. there's also a lot of strong language.
> 
> Note that I am not necessarily following canon with regard to timelines in this story or any related stories that I might write in the future.
> 
> I've quoted from the game in places in order to provide context for my story; those quotes are of course the property of Bioware, who also own the characters and world. I've just taken them out to play.

“What is your name?” they asked her in the beginning, when she was their prisoner. And she answered. There was no reason not to; it gave away nothing. “What is your full name?” they asked, insistent. Humans, dwarves, even elves had more than one name; the one for their family or clan, and a personal one for themselves. Sometimes more than one. She shrugged.

“Just Adaar,” she had said.

Qunari did not have names. Tal-Vashoth, who had left the Qun, did not always take more than one name. It was reasonable to assume that the same was true of Vashoth, born outside the Qun. There was no reason for any of them to press her, although she did encounter some teasing and was never quite certain that the spymaster believed her.

Adaar. She was just Adaar; there was no need to be anything more. She had left all else behind with the bones of her parents. If she left her own bones here, as seemed likely, it was all the same.

The rock that struck her head after she was led from the dungeon hit her hard, knocking her sideways; unable to move her hands for balance and constrained by the nearness of the Seeker, she had fallen. The attack had taken her by surprise, coming from behind, but it had not surprised her; she had seen the hatred on their faces, seen the spitting. They wanted a scapegoat.

But her assailant had gone down under Cassandra’s fist, and the others were drawing back. They evidently did not have the courage to challenge the warrior: perhaps she would survive for a little longer.

Cassandra’s hand came roughly down on Adaar’s collar and hauled her to her feet, shoving her forward, hard and urgent against her back, steadying her. “Move,” the Seeker said. Her voice was calmer than the pressure of her hand. Adaar moved. She could feel blood running into her collar, and it was likely she would have a headache for a few hours, but she was not significantly hurt. The blow had caught her partly on the stump of one horn, blunting its effect. And in any case she had a hard head, as many had observed before.

As they walked Cassandra looked at Adaar, scowling, and then at the crowd, and then back at Adaar, and put her hand on her sword hilt.

“Don’t worry,” said Adaar softly, showing her teeth in a not-smile, “I’m not going to attack them. I’m not that much of a fool.”

The warrior frowned more deeply. “ _You_ are not the fool I am worrying about,” she said. Adaar blinked at her, startled.

She was startled again when Cassandra released her from her bonds, after they crossed the bridge; if she did not think Adaar was a danger to her, why had she not done so sooner? _But then I was surrounded by frightened, angry villagers_ , she thought, _and a Qunari who is bound is less frightening. Here it is all military, and the discipline will be better_. It made sense, which reassured her. _She was angry with me, but she controlled herself. Though she will be quick enough to turn on me if I threaten her, or cannot prove my innocence_. In a way, that thought was reassuring as well: she was dealing with a professional.

She felt better with a greatsword in her hand, after the first battle with demons, but when the warrior saw her with it, she took a threatening step forward. “Drop your weapon. Now.”

“If you’re going to lead me through a demon infested valley, you’ll have to trust me,” said Adaar, gripping her sword more firmly. Who did this snarling fool think finished off the second demon? And what exactly did she expect Adaar to do when they were attacked? Kill demons by spitting on them?

Cassandra did not look placated. “Give me one reason to trust you.”

One would _think_ it was obvious, but evidently she would have to spell it out. “Because my life is on the line.” She had seen the warrior fight, seen the ferocious expertise; she was not certain that she could take Cassandra, exhausted and stiff and aching and disoriented as she was at the moment. But she would not give up the sword, not when there were demons around. She had had enough. She would go down fighting, whether to demons or to the furious woman threatening her. The thing on her hand would probably kill her in the end anyway. It didn’t matter. She would go down fighting.

The warrior did not move for a moment, then sighed and sheathed her sword. “You’re right. I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenseless.” She turned her back on Adaar, a deliberate demonstration of trust, and started to walk on, then hesitated and turned back almost reluctantly. “I should remember that you agreed to come willingly,” she said grudgingly, and turned again to find their path.

And that was the third surprise; that she judged fairly, despite all, and found fault with herself rather than Adaar when confronted.

*          *          *

The Qunari—the Vashoth, Cassandra corrected herself—was brave, certainly. She did not hesitate, charging the demons, greatsword swinging in arcs of carnage. But she fought intelligently for all of her berserker attacks, and between them the creatures went down.

Adaar was certainly imposing; the Seeker thought that half of Chancellor Roderick’s response to her was pure fear. She was taller by far than the humans around her, silvery grey skin with dark purplish-blue shadows and pale eyes that were a shade never seen on a human. Her horns had been cut off close to her skull and capped with embossed silverite, something Cassandra had never seen before; the effect was disturbing, making her at once seem both more human and less. Her face, too, was unsettling, a strong bone structure in sharp planes with only a hint of softness. She was alien, and terrifying.

But she was their only hope. If there was any chance she could save them, Cassandra would take it. They could deal with the rest afterwards.

*          *          *

She could close rifts. She had done so, though not without taking harm that had put her out of action for three days as thoroughly as if she’d been flattened by that thrice-damned pride demon, which she had not. She had wanted to have a go at it—it was the biggest thing she’d ever seen within reach of her sword, it was a _demon_!—but Solas had made it clear: her job was to close the rift, and unless some pissant monster attacked her directly she was to leave the fuckers to the others. Strategically it made sense, and so despite deep regrets, she stayed out of its way.

But at least the mark on her hand had stabilized: it was no longer killing her.

And the echoes of what had happened at the Conclave had been heard by all of them there at the centre of the ruins, and that had convinced Cassandra that she was not responsible for the explosion. Adaar supposed that she should be grateful for that.

But she had woken up in a village that seemed to have gone mad; from wanting to kill her, some of them were now calling her the Herald of Andraste. Herald of Andraste, my ass. That she was _not_ grateful for.

Finally, in the face of Chancellor Roderick’s raving, Cassandra had declared the Inquisition. And now they wanted her to work with them, because the Breach was still a threat, and she was their best chance of closing it.

Shit.

“What if I refuse?”

She would be in danger from those who still blamed her for the death of the Divine if she left, the Seeker said, and they could not protect her elsewhere. A veiled threat, but a threat nonetheless.

And then Cassandra had the cheek to say, “It will not be easy if you stay, but you cannot pretend that this has not changed you.” As if Adaar should be on some kind of higher spiritual plane after her miraculous escape and the appearance of the thing on her hand. As if the warning she’d been given wasn’t a threat at all, just part of some half-baked religious theory that the Seeker expected her to feel awed by, even though it belonged to a religion that explicitly excluded all but humans.

Herald. Calling her the Herald was _strategic_ , she could see that. Belief brought people together and tied them to the Inquisition; if she was favoured by Andraste it meant that they might be too. It was a focus for building. That it saved her skin was a fortunate by-product. She wondered who had first come up with the idea; maybe it was the spymaster. She had been the Left Hand, after all, and It was exactly the kind of thing the Chantry did in order to manipulate people.

But damned if the Seeker didn’t seem to half believe it.

Like hell. She was stuck with some damned glowing mark on her hand, and she could close rifts. But she was _herself_. She was not changed. Not in the way the Seeker seemed to think, anyway, as good as telling her that the Maker’s will had sent her to them like some fucking holy druffalo bouncing walleyed out of a cloud. Like hell the Maker would send a Vashoth unbeliever to try to save the world.

But she had no choice, really, not with that great pulsing monstrosity hanging overhead. She would stay, and try. Fuck and fuck and fuck.

*          *          *

Cassandra attempted to stifle outrage yet again as she walked through the Chantry to another interminable War Room meeting. “I’m Qunari, remember?” the Vashoth had said tauntingly, when Cassandra asked her if she believed in the Maker. “Your Maker doesn’t believe in me, does he?”

It was true that the Chantry did not welcome non-humans into the ranks of its clerics, for they had fallen further than humans. But it preached to them, for the Maker would not return until all races accepted the Chant and practiced its teachings. She had met elves and dwarves who believed, and she supposed that some Tal-Vashoth must as well. It was not a foolish question, despite Adaar’s amusement.

Perhaps it had been too much to hope for, that the woman who must save them was a believer. Perhaps it did not matter; the Maker still put people where they needed to be. Individuals did not need to believe for that to happen.

“I have to believe we were put on this path for a reason, even if you do not,” Cassandra had said to her. But it would have been easier for her to have faith in the Maker’s plan if the Vashoth had not been a foul-mouthed unbeliever with a sardonic grin that grated on her nerves, an unbeliever whose only commitment was to profitability. Sometimes the Maker’s will seemed explicitly designed to stretch the Seeker’s patience.

*          *          *

At least expeditions got them out of the stifling expectations of Haven and its Herald this, Herald that. Even the Council called her Herald, which was ridiculous: they should know better. All right, it reinforced belief among the people, which was politically useful, but it made her feel like she was expected to stand at the top of a pillar and make _pronouncements_. And that was not something she did, oh no. No fucking pronouncements of faith from this Vashoth. She would offer her opinion at the War Table, as someone with experience in battle, but that was as far as it went.

Killing demons and other enemies provided a much-needed outlet for the simmering anger that the use of the title raised in her. But when they weren’t actually killing things or trying to close rifts, the excursions were not as much of a relief as Adaar would have hoped.

It was not like travelling with the Valo-Kas, who were relaxed and joked and teased even in battle. These were people thrown together by chance, not choice, and it showed. They did not even _touch_ each other by choice. Solas was a pedantic annoyance, always going on about history. She listened carefully—some of what he said was useful or might be useful in the future—but it was not camaraderie, it was a lecture. Varric might have been better company, but in the field, if he was not complaining, he only seemed to want to prod and provoke the Seeker. He had good reason for it, it perhaps, but it grew tiresome.

She might have felt sorry for Cassandra, who clearly did not know how to deal with the dwarf, if she had not been so thoroughly irritating in her own right. She was rigidly formal in her interactions—it was obvious that she did not like Adaar, though she had accepted her as the Herald—and she appeared to have no sense of humour whatsoever. Adaar had tried a few jokes, and they had fallen flat. All right, her humour was a little on the dark side, or at times earthy, but there was no need to look at her as if she was a bug that had crawled out from under a rock.

 _Damn_ the luck that had put her here. She wanted to be back with her friends, back where she knew who stood with her, back where she belonged.

*          *          *

Cassandra was worried. She felt as if she had always been worried, though she knew that her fears had not been constant companions until the destruction of the Conclave. She knew her own imperfections well, and had begun to learn those of her companions, and sometimes it seemed ridiculous to hope that so many flawed and desperate people could build an Inquisition. Ridiculous to hope that the particularly imperfect Herald of Andraste could bring them together.

The situation _was_ desperate. They needed to build, to organize. They needed resources. They needed supporters. There was a Revered Mother in the Hinterlands who needed protection and wanted to speak to the Herald; she might be able to help them with the Chantry. There was a horsemaster who might provide mounts. If they could calm the conflict raging there between mages and templars, they could bring some stability and help the refugees, and if that happened they stood a chance to build further. There was a great deal that needed to be done, and not nearly enough people to do it. She rode out with the Vashoth to try to see to some of these problems, the sense of urgency pressing on her like armour fashioned from stone.

It was worse even than she had expected. The Seeker had been in the Hinterlands many times, but what she saw now looked nothing at all like the beautiful lands she had travelled through. All was devastation and death. “Look at this,” she said in horror. “The apostates have gone mad with power.”

“The Templars aren’t looking any better here,” said Varric sourly, needling as usual, and as usual she felt her anger rise.

Adaar grunted. “This kind of madness doesn’t play favourites,” she said. “All it takes is an idea, and make it an ideal of how things _ought_ to be arranged, an ideal to believe in, and a belief that it’s an ideal worth dying to protect. Exterminate anyone who disagrees. It’s an old tale. The scale here is the only thing that makes it different.”

“It is more complicated than that,” protested Cassandra, stung.

“Is it?” said Adaar. “Well, ideals are your business, Seeker, not mine. I just know what I see. And the kind of things I’ve been paid to do.”

Cassandra subsided into a furious silence, feeling outnumbered. Of course the Vashoth was right, to some degree: the Templars had lost their way. She had said so herself. But the Seeker hated Adaar’s cynicism, the way she seemed to laugh at Cassandra’s beliefs. Ideals were _important_. They were what led people to work for something better. They were worth something more than to be casually derided.

*          *          *

The Chantry had denounced the Inquisition, declaring the naming of a Vashoth as the Herald of Andraste to be blasphemy, a view Adaar actually had a great deal of sympathy with. So now the Chantry needed to be appeased and everyone wanted her to talk to Mother Giselle, though she wasn’t quite sure why; what good could one Revered Mother do? She was just one more relatively low-level Chantry functionary, albeit one that sounded considerably more sensible than Chancellor Roderick. MIght as well ask a fennec to take on a druffalo; the results would still be furry, more or less, but considerably flatter.

But at least the woman was at the Crossroads with the refugees, which meant they didn’t have to go out of their way to find her. And what she said seemed reasonable, and made strategic sense.

And yet.

 _You can build_ , the Revered Mother said. _The people will listen to your rallying call as they will listen to no other_. Yes, it was good sense politically, but it locked her into this travesty of _Herald_.

 _Am I being used?_ she thought. _Oh yes_. Some thought she was touched by Andraste, holy in herself, certainly. But those who still held power—no. This was strategically deployed belief. It was everything she hated about the Chantry, about faith, about the manipulation it enabled. She did not want to become a tool of one Chantry faction against another. She did not want to be anyone’s tool, unless it was by her own choice.

Cassandra’s faith in her was almost a relief by comparison. She genuinely believed that Adaar was the Herald, but she didn’t seem to think that made her particularly special. She was straightforward in her assessment of the strategic benefits of the appellation, but she wasn’t playing games of manipulation. She simply believed. Funny to think that the one who truly believed all the Chantry bullshit, the one who had been the Divine’s hammer, was the most honest of them all.

*          *          *

Cassandra did not know how to understand Adaar. She was a Qunari; Qunari were brutal and unrelenting and lived under a system that made no sense to the Seeker. But Adaar was also Vashoth, meaning that she had been born outside that system, although her parents had not. The Seeker knew she must take care with her assumptions.

In battle Adaar seemed to fit all the stereotypes: she fought with an uncontained ferocity that was fearsome to observe, her greatsword cleaving everything in its path. She seemed immune to pain, and taking blows only seemed to make her stronger. Cassandra found that she enjoyed fighting next to her; they had very different styles, but they worked well together, often with Cassandra first stunning them and Adaar, on her heels or beside her, finishing them off.

But when she was not fighting... then she was a puzzle. She did not say a great deal, but when she took the trouble she could be both articulate and perceptive, and her decisions at the War Table demonstrated an excellent sense of strategy. Leliana’s investigations had shown that she was more than a simple line fighter; her former captain had expressed great respect for her skills. She had commanded a squad, and effectively. Adaar was not just cunning; it was clear that she had a formidable brain. She was calm and focused and did not respond to provocation. She did not get bogged down in what-ifs. She looked at a situation, evaluated what was possible, made a choice, and followed through, and her brisk pragmatism was refreshing after the lengthy arguments that had occurred when there had been only the four of them working together. She broke the impasses that happened when they split evenly over a decision, and so far her choices had been sound.

But that did not mean that she was pleasant. Quite the contrary: she was exceptionally irritating. She was often crude and too dismissive of things Cassandra thought deserved respect. She made it plain that she thought her designation as Herald was arrant nonsense, that the faith of those who believed in her was pure foolishness. Thank the Maker, at least she did not say such things publicly.

Her approach to the world was everything that Cassandra’s was not. She seemed to expect the worst of everyone. Well, as a Vashoth in lands that hated and feared Qunari, perhaps that was not surprising. But it was thoroughly annoying, and the Seeker far too often found herself having to work to keep an even temper in Adaar’s company.

The woman did not even seem to believe in doing good simply because it was the right thing to do. She had remarked contemptuously on Cassandra’s idealism more than once, saying that idealism only served to make you work for others for free.

And yet.

When Lord Kildarn had complained to the Inquisition about the refugees on his lands, it was Cullen’s advice that Adaar had insisted that they should follow, and not that which might have resulted in more direct political influence. Inquisition troops were sent to help the refugees, not the lord. Perhaps it was from a reflexive hatred of arrogant nobility—the Vashoth had made it clear that she despised nobles who believed themselves better than others—but still, she had chosen to protect the weak.

In the Hinterlands, the Herald grumbled about the constant clamour of requests for help that she was bombarded with. “Do they think we have time for every sad story, every lost teacup?” But then she had delivered flowers to the grave of the wife of a frail, elderly elf who dared not travel to do it himself.

“I am surprised that you would trouble to do this,” Cassandra had said as Adaar laid the flowers, because she was. It seemed a romantic gesture, and the Herald was the least romantic person she had ever met.

The Vashoth looked at her and grinned in a way that showed her pointed canines. “It was not exactly _difficult_ to find flowers and lay them on the grave,” she said. Which was true—there were many flowers in bloom in the area, and they had been collecting herbs for potions anyway—but that was not the point. “And our Lady Ambassador advises that we should be seen doing good works,” she said, “as it improves our _reputation_.”

It was true that helping the common people raised their standing among the populace. But helping an elf, who had little standing at the best of times and who consequently could do little for them... She could easily have ignored this request with no consequence, or lied about doing it. And it was not the only time she had chosen to help such a person; she did so more often than not. It was a puzzling contradiction.

*          *          *

Cassandra was an enigma. On one hand, she seemed a perfect warrior, her focus unshakable. In battle, as Adaar had once told her, she seemed a force of nature. She was bold and fearless and always in the vanguard, though at the same time she always had an eye for the defense of her companions.

She was a fixture of the Inquisition. She had _declared_ the Inquisition, with Leliana.

But she was an idealist. Idealists were dangerous, rigid and prescriptive in their beliefs. They were vulnerable to those who knew how to manipulate them, vulnerable to the dishonesty and machinations of organizations like the Chantry. Certainly the Seeker had an implacable sense of duty and propriety. Certainly she was intensely and unnervingly pious; she had been the Right Hand of the Divine for twelve years, upholding the Chantry’s laws and the Divine’s will without question. Certainly she had _ideals_ , and took great offense when they were challenged.

But when Adaar had asked about the Seekers, Cassandra’s answers told a slightly different story. She had left her order, staying with the Divine, when the Seekers withdrew from the Chantry, because she felt that they took the wrong path, that they were failing in their duty. She had not hesitated, though she clearly still cared deeply for them.

Adaar was not certain how she felt about this. There seemed a certain level of disloyalty in the Seeker’s choice that she was not comfortable with; when you commit, you owe something. But she _had_ committed, to Justinia as well as to the Seekers, and as the Right Hand it was Justinia who was due her first loyalty. And to stand against the choices of her order indicated a strength of character that Adaar found admirable. Cassandra was not blind in her faith and sense of duty. She was prepared to think critically, and set herself against what she perceived as injustice, as wrong action, no matter what the source and cost to herself.

 _Should someone set their own ideals as a higher standard than those of a group?_ Adaar’s cynicism asked. _Can any personal sense of justice be infallible in its choices?_ But in truth, the same could be said of institutional justice. And although Cassandra might make mistakes, she was not afraid to admit when she had been wrong about something.

She was rigid in her idealism, yet she was not. Adaar did not know how to reconcile these contradictions. She only knew that Cassandra was both puzzling and infuriating. Her practicality, her matter-of-factness, her professionalism—that was familiar and comforting. But her idealism stuck under the Vashoth’s skin like salt in a cut, itched like a wound that wouldn’t scab over.

*          *          *

“If you have a problem with me personally, I’d like to know about it,” said Adaar in a polite tone to the horsemaster, whose jaw dropped.

“What? I’ve got no quarrel with the Qunari. No idea how you ride without your feet dragging on the ground, but that’s between you and the mount.” And then he began discussing what needed to be done before he would send horses to the Inquisition.

“Why did you challenge Master Dennet?” said Cassandra to her, later. She was genuinely puzzled; Adaar rarely did things without purpose, and this had seemed uncalled for. “He had given us a good reason for refusing to help immediately.”

“Because there’s not always only one reason,” said the Vashoth, “and if that’s the case it’s better to get it out in the open before we waste time going through the motions of fulfilling requirements that can never be met.”

Cassandra frowned. “You mean that he would not have worked for a Qunari. But he could have lied to you.”

“He might have. But even if someone lies, their answer often gives something away, because being challenged takes them by surprise. And people are honest surprisingly often. Especially if someone like the Right Hand is there to protect them against a crazy Qunari.” Adaar huffed out an amused breath. “Anyway, he wasn’t lying. I could tell by the way he answered. He doesn’t care one way or another. We’ll get our horses if we can show that we can look after them.”

What was more surprising to Cassandra than Adaar’s challenge was her matter-of-factness about it. Ensuring that someone was willing to work with her in spite of her being Qunari was something that she considered customary and necessary to do, as a matter of efficiency. The Seeker had met people who disliked her personally and evaded working with her, but it was rare; most put up with the difficulties of her character with varying degrees of courtesy. And it _was_ personal in such cases. It would have been very strange for someone to refuse to work with her simply because she was human. It could happen, she had heard of the like sometimes with dwarves of Orzammar, but such treatment was an exception in her personal experience. Evidently with Qunari it was not. She wondered what it would be like to have to plan around such an eventuality—and how it might affect one’s temper. She was not at all certain that she would be as tolerant should she be in the same position.

*          *          *

Adaar did not like the undead. Not at all. One or two, not so bad, but this was not one or two, this was dozens, hundreds, and they never seemed to stop coming. They oozed and dripped and bits fell off them. And even worse, they rose from the water, which meant that when you waded through yet another shallows, you were _wading through fucking dead things_. Dead things that you _couldn’t see_. Until they rose. It made her skin crawl and her stomach lurch, and she had a infuriatingly persistent urge to run away screaming. She did not want to touch them. She most assuredly did not want them to touch her. Any parts of them. But of course after fighting them, physically unstable as they were, she always ended up covered in bits of rotting flesh.

And they _smelled_ , a vile stomach-turning sweetish stench. And so did her companions and Adaar herself, now. Fucking _hells_. It was in her _hair_. It was impossible to bathe in these waters, that would just make things worse. She would burn these clothes when she returned. She would take a bath in scalding-hot water. Clean water. For hours. With pumice and scented oils. She might never wear this armour again. She would certainly have all the leather and cloth replaced. She would have Harritt heat her weapons in the forge to just below the point of weakening them, to burn out any remnants of the... goo. Or perhaps she would just melt them down and craft new ones.

She could barely bring herself to eat; everything smelled and tasted of death, even the rainwater they collected to drink. She consumed most of what was put in front of her grimly, as fuel, and refused to think about it.

She would _never_ return to the Fallow Mire after they found the missing soldiers. Never.

Cassandra, of course, being made of sterner stuff than other mortals, scarcely seemed to notice the unpleasantness, beyond a slightly more intense expression of distaste than usual. Well of course these things would be of no importance to someone of such spiritual strength. Varric, on the other hand, complained almost continuously, and needled Cassandra even more than usual. “Guess you’re used to being surrounded by walking and talking stinking corpses, Seeker, nothing new for you here,” he said after one particularly unpleasant fight, while Adaar was seriously considering having a fit of shrieking vapours.

“Nevarran corpses are embalmed,” said Cassandra shortly. “They do smell, but they do not smell of rot in the same way. And they are considerably drier. They do not squish.”

“Oh, now that makes all the difference,” muttered Varric sarcastically, and Adaar let out a bark of laughter, both at his comment and the remark that provoked it.

Afterwards, she considered what the Seeker said. It was almost... No. Surely the Seeker could not have _intended_ to make a humourous remark. One might as well expect a nug to hump a bronto.

She caught Cassandra’s eyes on her more than once as they made their way through the fens, and growled to herself; she suspected that her reaction to the undead was not entirely hidden, and it upset her even more that her weakness might show to someone who was watching for it. Trust the Seeker to look for vulnerabilities, even in an ally. Well, fuck her. They would get the job done and then they would get out. And it could not be too soon for her.

*          *          *

The first time Cassandra saw Adaar naked was somewhere in the Hinterlands, well before they came to Skyhold. They’d had a hard fight cleaning out the main Templar encampment by the river, and both of them were covered in gore. “If you want to clean up,” said Solas fastidiously, surveying them, “Varric and I will stand watch.”

By the time Cassandra had finished stripping Adaar was thigh-deep in a pool, loosening her braid, and by the time the Seeker was in the water she had dunked herself and was scrubbing at her hair with soap. “I _hate_ getting blood and guts in my hair,” she grumbled.

Cassandra looked at her. “You could keep it short.”

“No.” Adaar’s hair, unbraided, hung over her shoulder, thicker than expected and stark white against the silvery grey skin. She lathered her hands and arms, handed Cassandra the soap, scooped up a handful of sand, and began to scrub at a stubborn patch of dried blood.

Cassandra eyed her surreptitiously as she washed herself. She had not encountered many Tal-Vashoth, and she had never seen one naked; she was curious as to how their bodies differed.

Apart from size and colour, there did not seem to be any obvious differences. Adaar was powerfully built with well defined muscles, though she was somewhat lanky and not nearly as massive in bulk as the males the Seeker had seen. She had small breasts relative to her size, and her hips were slim rather than full, but these were still very definitely the curves of a woman’s body. Cassandra wondered if this physique was typical of Qunari women, but decided that it would be impolite to ask.

If there were more intimate anatomical differences, they were hidden under the thatch of white hair at the juncture of Adaar’s thighs, and that would _certainly_ be impolite to ask about. Not to mention that such questions could lead to misunderstandings. Cassandra felt the tips of her ears redden at the very thought.

And then Adaar turned round, and she forgot all about her analysis of the Herald’s physiology. Her back was a lacery of scarring, silvery lines crossing and layering.

She had been whipped, and brutally.

“Adaar...” she said without thinking.

The Herald turned her head. “What?”

She had not meant to say anything. But... “Your back,” said Cassandra.

Adaar frowned, her eyes cold. “What about it?”

“How...” said the Seeker, and then trailed off.

“I was working for another mercenary company, mostly human, before the Valo-Kas,” the Vashoth said. “One Orlesian lord who hired us made an indirect play against the Empress Celene. She sent her troops to support her proxy. We lost the battle.”

Cassandra stared. “But... the right of fair treatment of prisoners applies to mercenaries as it does to regular troops.”

Adaar grinned humourlessly, showing her teeth. “I am Vashoth, Cassandra. Nothing applies.”

“Adaar—”

“It’s not important,” said Adaar, cutting her off. “It happened a long time ago. And I killed the officer who ordered it.” She submerged herself wholly, then climbed out of the pool, shaking off the water, and began to braid her hair.

*          *          *

“Carta,” said Cassandra, eyeing Varric balefully. “That’s who’s behind this. Mining for profit, and hiding the work by convincing everyone that the area is infested with bandits.”

“It’s called _competitive advantage_ , Seeker,” said Varric. “Don’t pretend that nobles don’t do the same kind of thing in the Game.” They were sitting around the fire in camp eating a stew that Adaar thought disappointingly unimaginative. She sighed privately. They’d had a day of some tough fighting before they cleared out the mercenary fortress, and she’d hoped for a good meal and some peace and quiet, but it looked to be an evening that would be unsatisfactory on both counts.

“If this is connected to the appearance of red lyrium,” said the Seeker tightly, “I am surprised that you would defend them.”

“I’m not defending anyone who mines red lyrium. That’s just fucking stupid. But the tactics with the mercenaries are pretty standard. Or maybe they didn’t get to the part about strategy in Seeker training?”

“There are different kinds of strategy,” snarled Cassandra, turning red. “There is the strategy of executing plans against other combatants. Then there is the strategy of self-interest, that puts wealth above all, that attacks unarmed refugees and non-combatants with mercenaries, who will fight for anyone who offers them a profit without questioning what they do.”

Adaar lifted her head abruptly. “Oh, hey now,” said the Iron Bull. The rest of the chatter around the fire had faded into silence at the raised voices. “And just how many line soldiers will question an officer’s orders, Seeker?”

“The point stands, if the officers who make the choices for them have no honour!” snapped Cassandra.

“You are forgetting,” said Adaar calmly, “how many mercenaries the Inquisition has taken on. Are you suggesting that none of us are with honour?” She smiled charmingly. “And I can assure you that I have met officers of the regular military, committed to a _cause_ rather than profit, who have behaved dishonourably.”

Cassandra opened her mouth to argue, and then went still, frowning. “You are right,” she said grudgingly after a moment. “I should not assume that all companies, or all individuals, are the same. I apologize.”

Well. _That_ was a surprise. Though perhaps it should not be; it was not the first time that the Seeker had been willing to consider other points of view, even when angry. The woman might be infuriating, but she was also fair.

*          *          *

The Blades of Hessarian had pledged their allegiance, and were working now as scouts and fighters for the Inquisition. A letter had come offering supplies that had been taken under their old captain. “We could use the resources,” said Cullen, and Josephine concurred, though she thought they should be circumspect about the way they accepted them, given the dubious legality of their acquisition.

Cassandra agreed. The supplies offered were needed. There should be no question about accepting them.

But the Herald took Leliana’s position with regard to this, and was unmoving. “No,” she said. “The goods they have offered were gathered before they joined the Inquisition. They have offered them freely, but they are working for us now, and I will not see them lose by it. Their offer shows their goodwill. They can provide information, and a share of the goods they take in the future, and that will be a fair trade.”

“We _need_ those supplies,” argued Cassandra, who thought Leliana’s suggestion foolish. “They will not lose by it if we put them to good use. You are the one who said it: they are working for us now.”

“By their own words, they are working for _me_ ,” said Adaar, frowning slightly. “I am responsible for them. And I say that they will not lose by the association with the Inquisition. They may be mercenaries, but they deserve decent treatment.”

“I am not suggesting—” Cassandra began hotly, but Leliana caught her eye, and shook her head very slightly. The Seeker gave a frustrated grunt and subsided, seething. It seemed that Adaar cared more for the comfort of the mercenary company than the needs of the Inquisition itself. The woman had no sense of _priorities_.

*          *          *

The expedition to Val Royeaux had been unsatisfactory on many levels. On arrival, they had been warned of the gathering of templars, apparently called to protect the people from the Inquisition, and Cassandra had been outraged. It seemed likely that there would be violence, perhaps even before they could ask the Chantry for support.

But things had not gone as expected. Revered Mother Hevara had accused the Inquisitor of treachery, attempted to incite the people against them, and called on the templars to act; but the templars, instead of attacking the Inquisition, had struck down the Revered Mother.

Afterwards Cassandra had attempted to speak with Lord Seeker Lucius, who now led the Templars as well as the Seeker order, but had been brutally rebuffed, and then the Lord Seeker had withdrawn them from Val Royeaux entirely. Adaar was surprised by his arrogance, and even more by the fact that he did not trouble to cloak it. After dealing with Cassandra she had expected better of the Seekers, if not the Templars. _Should have known—the cocks always have to show their fanciest feathers and piss on everyone else_ , she thought to herself.

Cassandra had gone white when Lord Seeker Lucius spoke to her, whether with fury or distress Adaar did not know. But she controlled herself, and afterwards was entirely focused and practical in her recommendations.

Adaar hoped that it had been fury, a reaction she thought the Lord Seeker’s words entirely warranted. It was not Cassandra who was focused on gaining personal power. The warrior did not deserve the treatment she had had from him.

*          *          *

Cassandra was not happy about Lord Seeker Lucius, or the Templars, or the reception of the Inquisition in Val Royeaux. She wanted nothing more than to get away and inform the Council of what had happened, so they could plan what to do next. But there were delays.

The visit may have raised more questions than it settled with regard to the Templars and the Chantry, but it also brought more support to the Inquisition. Cassandra knew Madame de Fer, of course. The Imperial Enchanter was highly skilled, not just as a mage but as a lethally adept player of the Game. Cassandra had needed to deal with political intrigue and the Game to some extent as the Divine’s Right Hand, but she hated it and was a poor player. She did not entirely trust Vivienne and disliked her arrogance and ambition, but thought that she could offer useful advice: she was a valuable acquisition.

The other volunteer’s offerings were considerably more questionable, to Cassandra’s mind. Sera was simply a criminal offering criminal connections. It was beneath the Inquisition to accept her offer.

And yet Adaar had done so. The Herald seemed to have no difficulties with accepting Sera’s somewhat incoherent proposal. Perhaps there was not that much difference between the chaos of a criminal life and that of a mercenary? Cassandra was not pleased. So far Adaar’s choices had been strategically effective; she would hold her tongue, for now. But she would be watching the elf. It was all likely to end in trouble.

*          *          *

Orlesians might have pretentions towards elegance and civility, but they also had finely tuned skills of discourtesy. Adaar knew that the whispers, the whispers of oxwoman, cow, animal, hornhead, bonebrain, and worse—oh yes, much worse—were carefully voiced to just fall within her range of hearing without singling out the speaker.

Standing to consult with her briefly about their return to Skyhold, Cassandra could hardly have missed it, and her frown, already intimidating, had become positively ferocious. “They are trying to provoke you,” she said, and Adaar nodded. Then, to her surprise, Cassandra said, “I am sorry that you must endure this.”

Adaar shrugged. “They are more subtle than most,” she said. “It is easy to ignore.”

“You... are more tolerant than I would be,” said Cassandra, her lips in a thin line.

Adaar let the corner of her mouth curl up a little. “I’ve had a lot of practice. It doesn’t bother me, and it puts them at a disadvantage if they underestimate me. And Josephine would never forgive me if I hit them. That would be far more upsetting.” The Seeker’s frown deepened. Evidently she disliked such frivolous answers.

*          *          *

Cassandra could not read the Herald, and it worried her. It was not that she did not show emotion; she did. She frowned or smiled and occasionally laughed, always at the right time, in the right place. But she was too _placid_. No, it was not placidity. It was something else. She was... muted. And it felt _wrong_.

The Seeker had watched her in Val Royeaux, seen her react to the whispering. Or more accurately, fail to react. She had said that it did not bother her, and perhaps that was true, but surely the very constancy of the casual cruelty must have some effect? Cassandra knew that if she had been the subject of such whispering, she would have been angry. She might have been able to hide it from the Orlesians under a veneer of stiff Nevarran arrogance, but she would not have been able to hide it from her associates.

But Adaar showed no strong emotions, no passion, unless she was fighting. Then she was ablaze with it.

“It is hard to trust someone when you don’t know what they are feeling,” Cassandra complained to Leliana one day. “It makes me wonder what she is hiding. If she is being dishonest with us.”

“I have not caught her in a lie so far,” said the spymaster, “and I have investigated her very thoroughly. So far it appears that she has been entirely truthful with us.”

“Could she be a spy?”

“No,” said Leliana. “She is not a spy.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because she does not volunteer much, and that draws the attention of people like me,” said Leliana. “A spy would fully express their opinions and feelings; they might even seem to be more open than most people. The difficulty is in knowing whether they are honest in what they say. Think of Bull: he really is a spy, though he admits it freely. Most of the Inquisition trusts him because he is so open in everything he says that we think we know him; that is what a good spy does.”

Cassandra stared at her. “Do you distrust Bull?”

Leliana smiled. “I watch him. He may be entirely honest; I have found nothing to suggest otherwise. But my point is that if he was lying about something this is still the way that he would behave, for it does not attract attention. Spies are trained to speak as much truth as possible, and to dissemble convincingly. Adaar does not dissemble: she simply does not express what she thinks and feels about certain things. It is not natural. I notice; you notice; likely everyone notices. It makes it almost certain that she is not a spy.”

“I don’t like it,” said Cassandra shortly.

Leliana’s smile widened. “You would not—you hold your thoughts and emotions in plain view, and are unlikely to trust anyone who does not. But Cassandra, consider this: what expression does Adaar have most of the time?”

The Seeker thought for a moment. “Pleasant. Friendly. Not quite smiling.”

“And what does she do when she meets people for the first time?”

“She smiles and nods and greets them,” said the Seeker, frowning. “Why are you asking this?”

“She doesn’t touch strangers,” said Leliana. “She doesn’t step forward. She is pleasant and obliging, but she does not advance. Most humans who see a Vashoth see only Qunari, with all that the word suggests. She is used to having people fear her, and likely has felt the results of that fear. She has learned to make herself unthreatening. An angry Qunari is very threatening indeed.”

“You describe her as if she was constantly placating people,” said Cassandra. “As if she is always agreeable. She is not. She argues with me constantly, and does so strongly.”

“You are not afraid of her,” said Leliana simply.

Cassandra opened her mouth and then shut it again.

“That cannot be the only reason she does not show strong feelings,” she said finally. “She does not show great pleasure, either.”

“A very happy Qunari could frighten some people,” said Leliana drily. “Think of Bull at his most boisterous.”

“Still—”

“Assuredly there is more to it than that,” said Leliana. “This is someone who does not want to have any tells about what they care about.”

“And she does not,” said Cassandra, sighing.

“Of course she does,” said Leliana. “The absence of tells is one in itself, for example. I think it is safe for you to assume that a blank expression when faced with something that should produce a reaction shows that she feels something strongly. It’s likely also her reaction to being surprised.”

Cassandra grunted. “I still don’t like it.” But Leliana only laughed.

*          *          *

Cassandra was thankful that Adaar had decided to recruit the Templar Order over the mages—she had not been confident that the Herald would do so—but she was deeply shaken by the events at Therinfal Redoubt. How could a demon have replaced the Lord Seeker? And worse, how could no one have noticed it? Templars were not infallible—if they were, there would be no need for Seekers—but their duty was to recognize magic and demonic possession. To not identify the presence of a demon in their midst—that was appalling.

And if templars could make such a mistake, could Seekers?

But Adaar had not only recruited the Templars, she had taken them as allies rather than conscripting them. And that was simply wrong. The Templars had committed dreadful crimes, and the Inquisition should have taken control of them. She said as much at the War Table meeting afterwards. Cullen disagreed, of course, arguing that it was only the officers that were at fault. As if that made things better.

But there was no point in arguing. It was done, and they must live with the consequences. At least they would have support in their efforts to seal the Breach.

But she was still distressed about it. She supposed it showed, because Adaar said to her later, nudging her as they walked through the Chantry, “You disagree with the decision to recruit the Templars as allies.”

“I am not confident they can be trusted any longer,” she said.

Adaar grinned. “I chose them because I know how warriors think, not because I trust them. I have never been confident that they could be trusted, even before this. No organization is infallible, Seeker. Have you not learned that yet?”

“ _You_ do not trust _anyone_ ,” said Cassandra shortly, stung.

“True,” said Adaar. “Or almost true; I give the benefit of the doubt to those with especially _upstanding_ characters.”

Cassandra knew she was being goaded, and she knew her reaction encouraged the Herald, but she could not prevent a huff of frustration. “Officers have a responsibility to their soldiers,” she said furiously. “They owe them a debt. They must show what is right, by example. And instead they failed and betrayed them. How are those who believed in them to understand what is right when those who led them have gone so wrong?”

“Soldiers may be betrayed and led astray, but they are just as capable of understanding right and wrong as any officer,” said Adaar, with no humour at all in her voice. “Don’t underestimate them. Barris is a good man and wasn’t afraid to challenge his superiors and stand with us. He’ll lead them well. They will have Cullen’s example. And yours, if you deign to provide it.” And she walked away.

Cassandra ground her teeth together. She had somehow managed to offend the Herald yet again. She seemed destined to do so; they were like flint and tinder.

But she had to admit that Adaar was right. She had allowed her anger and distress to override her good sense. It was infuriating. And it did nothing to settle her concerns over the Seekers.

And then there was that— _thing_. That boy-shape that had suddenly appeared on the War Table. If Adaar’s recruitment of the Templars as allies had annoyed the Seeker, her acceptance of a demon as an ally left Cassandra practically speechless. Solas said it was a spirit, but not possessing anyone; it had taken shape without taking someone else. But if it manifested in their world—did that not make it a demon? Solas thought not, but she did not entirely trust Solas. His knowledge was extensive, but it was not based on practical experience. A well-meaning demon, if such a thing was possible, was likely almost as dangerous as one that wished you harm.

To invite a demon to ally with them—would that not simply offer it an opportunity, make them as vulnerable as the Templars? But Adaar had said that Cole had helped save her from the envy demon. Without him she might not have survived that encounter. Perhaps... he could be an asset to the Inquisition.

Or perhaps not. He was clearly dangerous. She must warn the Inquisitor to take care. But if she did, likely Adaar would just laugh at her or prod her again.

Cassandra made a frustrated noise. Why did everything have to be so _difficult_?

*          *          *

Josephine had asked Adaar how she would answer the Grand Clerics who asked if she claimed to have been saved from the Conclave by Andraste, and Adaar had been very plain in her answer: no. She was not entirely sure of how Josephine regarded this, and she was not certain that her honest answer was the one that would be passed on, but it was her reply, and she had no intention of giving any other.

Cassandra, of course, learned of this in the discussions held by the Council, and decided to talk about the subject with Adaar privately. The Seeker seemed to be trying to convince her that disbelief did not necessarily mean that she was not chosen by Andraste.

Adaar laughed at her, and shook her head. “Are you mad, Seeker? Don’t try to slot me into your religious beliefs. My horns won’t fit no matter how much oil you pour over my Vashoth ass.”

Cassandra, predictably, took offense. “Look, Adaar, I know you don’t like me—”

“I don’t dislike you,” said Adaar. “I _disagree_ with you. I disagree with you about a lot of things. Your ideas often irritate me. But most of the time I actually like you, which is more than I can say of most people I disagree with.”

And it was true, to her own surprise. She disagreed vehemently with the warrior about many things, but she had come to respect and appreciate her. Cassandra might hold strong opinions about what constituted honourable behaviour, but she held herself to even higher standards. After Therinfal, when they had argued about the Herald’s decision, it had become clear that she did not just believe that she had a responsibility to those she led, she believed in some way that she served them as they served her. There were very few of officer rank who held that view, and Adaar found herself liking the Seeker considerably better for it.

She was grimly dedicated, but there was sometimes a hint of humour to leaven it, when one looked hard for it. She was an idealist, but she was also practical; when reality did not meet her expectations, she adjusted her expectations, something Adaar thought most idealists were incapable of doing. She was someone Adaar would be pleased to call a friend.

Cassandra seemed lost for words and completely nonplussed by her answer. Eventually she said, “I see,” nodded stiffly and walked away. And Adaar, amused, shook her head again.

*          *          *

The Storm Coast was wearing at the best of times, with its incessant rain. It didn’t help to be trapped by the weather in a tent with someone who irritated you, but although the scouts had tried to set up tarps as protection, there really wasn’t any way to sit around the fire as they usually did on expedition; the wind was just too changeable, and any place you chose to sit would eventually be wet. Everything was wet. For the most part, except when eating or working or in the field, people stayed in their tents. At least it did not smell like the Fallow Mire. It simply smelled wet.

Cassandra had been taken aback when Adaar had told her that she did not dislike her; she had assumed that the Vashoth felt antipathy towards her, given the degree to which they grated on each other’s nerves and the way the Herald seemed to delight in goading her. She knew that she irritated the warrior; Adaar reacted provokingly to many of the things she said, things that would not have been worth reacting to if the Vashoth was not annoyed. When she thought about it, she did not dislike Adaar, either; not exactly. But the Herald often roused an uncomfortable reflexive tension in her that she disliked feeling.

At least Adaar wasn’t talkative, thought Cassandra. When they did speak they only seemed to annoy each other. If they ever actually said much they might well end up killing each other, and then where would the Inquisition be? It was necessary to communicate to some degree, of course, especially when negotiating where to spread wet gear to dry, but as long as one was careful that was unlikely to cause problems.

But silence carried its own weight of discomfort when it was extended for hours in a tent in which you could barely move for the damp clothing hanging from lines strung within it, and reading the small book of poetry that she carried on expedition or thinking about the plots of her favourite novels could only go so far. It was different when there was no rain; if they did not speak much it was not notable, because there were others around. But this... they should be able to at least be civil to each other.

“What do you think of The Iron Bull?” she said finally, when her discomfort had overcome her reticence.

Adaar, who was oiling her armour, turned her head and looked at her. “In what sense?”

“In any sense,” said Cassandra, a little baffled. Why were conversations with Adaar so difficult? “Do you trust him? Do you like him?”

“Should I like him?” said Adaar.

“I don’t know,” said Cassandra, irritated. “I thought you might.”

“Because we are both Qunari?” said Adaar without any expression except mild interest.

Cassandra scowled. “No. Because he is friendly and behaves in a likable manner. Most people seem to like him.”

Adaar grunted, then said, “Do _you_ like him?”

Cassandra hesitated. “He is good company,” she said eventually, “but he is an agent of the Ben-Hassrath. I do not trust him, not yet. I will reserve my judgement.”

There was silence, then, with only the susurration of Adaar’s cloth on metal and leather. She seemed entirely focused on her task, and finally Cassandra decided that she was not going to answer the question.

But eventually the Herald set her work aside. “The Chargers have a good reputation, or I would not have agreed to take them on,” she said slowly. “He has been open with us as to his activities, or so it seems. But I also reserve my judgement. I am not a friend of the Ben-Hassrath, and I am not certain that I can ever trust a Ben-Hassrath agent. The divide between Ben-Hassrath and Tal-Vashoth is more bitter than the divide between Qunari and humans, Seeker. The Bull will have to prove himself before I will begin to trust him.” And then she lay down on her bedroll, pulled her blankets over herself, closed her eyes, and rolled over.

It was little enough, and it suggested more in what was not said than in her words, but it was also more than Cassandra had ever heard the Herald say about herself, and it left the Seeker with much to think about as she finished her preparations for bed and slid into her own clammy bedroll. It was enough to keep her awake for some time. Adaar’s breathing came steady and calm from the other side of the tent. But although Adaar had an amazing ability to doze wherever she was, almost instantly, Cassandra did not think she slept immediately on that night.

The next morning came far too early, with an alarm from the scouts; darkspawn had been sighted just down the beach. They threw their armour on quickly, snatched up their weapons, and moved to deal with the threat. By the time they returned the scouts had packed their gear for them; they took a quick breakfast and moved out. Cassandra led Solas, Sera and Blackwall further to the south, looking for signs of the Grey Wardens; Adaar took Varric, Vivienne and Iron Bull to look for the source of the darkspawn. Once those tasks were dealt with they would reunite in Haven.

It was two nights later, in a new campsite, that Cassandra dug in her pack hoping for a cleaner undershirt to replace the one that was currently bloodstained and stiff, and pulled it over her head to find that it came to mid-thigh, falling sloppily around her. After a moment of bewilderment she realized what must have happened: the scouts had mixed up her shirt and Adaar’s when packing back at the first camp. She sighed and stuffed the shirt into a corner of her pack. She could wear it, she supposed, although Adaar certainly would not be comfortable in hers. But she would not; she would rinse the gory one as best she could and trust that a night hanging in the tent and her body heat the next day would help it dry. It would be inappropriate to wear the Herald’s clothing. Even thinking of doing so made her uncomfortable.

*          *          *

The Breach was closed. Adaar stood looking down at the mass of celebrating villagers, feeling strangely lonely, and wondering. Perhaps now that so much had been accomplished she could leave them to it, and return to the Valo-Kas.

She regretfully pushed that thought aside. No. There was still a scar in the sky, and no one knew who had put it there; the Mark was still on her hand. Apart from anything else, on a purely personal level she wanted to know exactly how it had been set there, and why. And, hopefully, how to get rid of the damned thing. She would not find that out with the mercenaries.

Cassandra had come to stand with her. There was something strange about the Seeker; Adaar realized that it was in her movement, her expression. She had never seen Cassandra begin to relax before; she looked like a different person. “Word of your heroism has spread,” she said.

“You know how many were involved,” said Adaar, embarrassed. The Seeker did not generally use words ironically; if she used the word heroism it was because she genuinely agreed with it.

It was not quite like the approbation of a fellow Valo-Kas, but it was close enough to be comforting. Adaar began to feel better.

They spoke only a few words more—Cassandra had begun to say something about alliances—and then the bell began to ring.

*          *          *

 _Well, fuck_ , Adaar thought with a kind of annoyed resignation when the Elder One emerged from the dragon’s smoke. She supposed she should be terrified, and if she ever had time to think about it she probably would be. But right now, in the moment— _Fuck. If it’s not one thing it’s another_.

The others were gone. Good. But this thing, this darkspawn and its pet, had cut her off from their escape route. Well, that didn’t matter, she just needed to distract it long enough for them to get well away. And bring down the mountain. That last part seemed somewhat less manageable, given that the monster was unlikely to let her release the trebuchet. But if she could distract it even more, perhaps there would be a chance...

Well, she would do her best, as long as she had breath. _Let these bones have counted for something, at least_ , she thought.

*          *          *

Cassandra sat by a fire, warming herself and checking her gear. It was unreasonable, but she still believed against all evidence that there was hope. Adaar had not followed them when they fled; she had stayed to face that _thing_. But then the mountain had come down on Haven, and that meant she had survived long enough to set off the catapult. And if she had survived the monster, the dragon, could she not survive the avalanche?

Adaar had stayed. Adaar had insisted on being the one to face this monstrous creature. “But what of your escape?” Cullen had said, and had been answered only with stubborn silence.

She claimed to have no ideals, but she had stayed in the face of death, and sent the others on. She had stayed.

Cassandra had stayed as well, of course, with Varric and Solas, until the trebuchet was set. And then the dragon had circled, and swooped. “Move,” said the Herald. “Now!” And they ran.

They ran, and she had not followed. They ran, and left her. The thought burned in her belly, a pit of guilt and fear.

There was no point in sending anyone back to the ruins of Haven now, not in the darkness. But when light came, yes. She would lead a party to return and search. There were Fereldans here, with their mabari; she would ask one to come with them, a dog might be able to sniff out the Herald. A thought came to her; she reached into her pack, snatched from the Chantry as they fled, pulled Adaar’s undershirt out, and held it for a moment, her fingers knotting in the cloth. She had forgotten to return it when they had come back to Haven. Now she was glad. It would have Adaar’s scent. She almost sniffed it herself, to see, then shook herself at the foolishness of the thought and tucked it away quickly in a pocket of the pack; it would not do to let the scent fade before they could search.

There must be a chance. The Maker would not give them the Herald and then...

In the meantime, they could search back along their trail. Adaar knew where they were going, at least in general. She was familiar with the land around Haven; much would be changed after the avalanche, but not everything. If she had survived, if she had not been too badly injured—Cassandra would not think of that—she would follow the trail the refugees left. Qunari were unstoppable.

Adaar was unstoppable.

Most of the refugees were beyond helping, exhausted and in shock, but she took Cullen and a couple of scouts and set out. The wind had already begun to extinguish their tracks, which was frightening; how would Adaar follow their path when there was nothing of it left?

They had come to the crest of the pass above their encampment, and were beginning to lose the light of the fires. It was bitterly cold. But something was moving in the darkness, some blacker thing against the faint gleam of snow. “There! It’s her!” Cullen shouted.

“Thank the Maker,” said Cassandra fervently, ploughing forward through the snow. The black silhouette became abruptly less tall. She was the first to reach Adaar, who had gone to her knees. She caught the gleam of an eye under a frosty eyebrow.

“What took you so long?” said Adaar to her faintly, still that sly goading in her tone, and then toppled. Cassandra growled and reached for her.

It took all four of them to carry her back, gracelessly sprawled, bruised and battered and half frozen, with cuts and scrapes and cracked ribs. But she was alive.

She was alive.


	2. Skyhold

Cold. That was what Adaar would remember from that time; cold and the tangled confusion that plagued her as she put one foot in front of the other, day after day. At night she shared a tent with Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine; they huddled together, bodies close under the blankets, trying to find warmth. She had known none of them well before, although she had a good sense of Cassandra’s character from travelling with her on expedition; but none of them would ever quite be strangers, or even just acquaintances, in the same way again.

Leliana was as tough as she might have expected, knowing something of her history, but her respect for the Ambassador, who was not used to such rough living, grew exponentially. “You are like a furnace!” said Josephine cheerfully at one point, snuggling up against her and burrowing a cold nose into a warm and ticklish spot, making Adaar yelp. “If the Inquisition needs more funds we should rent you out to mountain expeditions.”

Adaar did not feel like a furnace. Sometimes she thought that she had not been warm since the mountain fell on her. Sometimes she thought she would never be warm again. There was the cold of the high mountain passes, the snow and ice, that was to be expected, but there was also the cold nestling somewhere inside, perhaps in her stomach or liver or kidneys. That cold was something the furnace could not touch.

They had sung. They had sung, and knelt to her.

They had knelt to a Qunari mercenary. This went beyond the strategic convenience of being called the Herald of Andraste. They were saying that it was a miracle that she had survived, that Andraste herself had saved her, yet again. Well, her survival had surprised her as well, but it did not mean there had been the intervention of a higher power; she was Vashoth, she was tough as dragonhide boots, she was stubborn as a lazy druffalo, and she had been lucky.

“An army needs more than an enemy,” said Mother Giselle. “It needs a cause.” And then the woman had made her one, as deliberately and precisely as one might move a piece on a chess board. Adaar might never forgive her for it.

But that was not entirely fair. The Revered Mother had merely taken advantage of the moment. Adaar herself had allowed it to happen, with her original acquiescence. She should never have allowed them to call her the Herald in the first place.

And damn it, it had worked. It had changed them; she could see that. Before, they had been lost and uncertain, they had been arguing amongst themselves, or caught in a lethargy of shock and grief. After, they had regained strength and found a focus.

Her.

Mother Giselle had primed her like a set crossbow, and Solas aimed her. Oh, that one understood political manipulation as well. “Scout to the north,” he said. “Be their guide.” And how did he so conveniently know of a place to go, that he had not mentioned it before, when Haven was so evidently inadequate for the Inquisition’s needs?

But there was nothing else to do. There was a place to go, Skyhold. Solas directed her steps and she went. And they followed. They would follow her anywhere.

She _hated_ it. But someone must stand against Corypheus. Someone must be a symbol, she supposed. If it was her, so be it. There was nothing else to do.

But she wished she could feel warm again.

*          *          *

The Herald said little during that trek through the mountains; she seemed even more tightly contained than she had been before. She had told them everything that Corypheus had said; they knew their enemy now, as much as it was possible to know an impossibility.

Cassandra watched, and wondered. Adaar kept an eye on everyone making that long trek; she seemed to feel personally responsible for all of them. She made sure that systems were set up to report the condition of the refugees, each illness, each injury, what the hunters had brought in, how food was being distributed. No matter how long or difficult the day’s travel had been, she walked the camp each evening with at least one of the Council, speaking with people briefly and making sure that there were no problems that had been missed. Cassandra might have thought that this was a skilled politician using the belief of the people to make a grab at power, except that it was obvious that Adaar had no interest in commanding the Inquisition.

And every day she seemed to became a little quieter, a little more impassive. Cassandra remembered what Leliana had said, and watched, and began to think that Adaar hated the way that people looked at her, wanted to touch her, wanted to receive her blessing. “Pray to Andraste,” was all she said to them. “She is the only one who can grant you blessings.”

Walking with her past a group of workers and their families one night, Cassandra heard a man say, “The hunters always find enough game to feed us all. It is because we travel with the Herald, and she is blessed.” Adaar said nothing, but a little later the Seeker heard the faintest, heaviest exhalation from her companion.

“Soon they will be putting your image on plates,” said Cassandra.

Adaar stopped dead. “Was that a _joke_ , Seeker?”

“I have been known to make them occasionally,” said Cassandra. She expected the Herald to snort quietly, as she often did when someone said something amusing, and walk on; but Adaar was still staring at her. They were between campfires, and it was hard to see her face in the darkness. Cassandra shivered. It was cold. “What is it?”

“You didn’t kneel when they sang,” Adaar said finally. “You believe I am the Herald, but you don’t seem to think I am holy.”

“No,” said Cassandra, a little puzzled. “That is, yes, I believe you are the Herald, and that the Maker has put you where you are needed. But you do not need to be holy for that to be true. I think that you are under the Maker’s hand, but I am not certain, under the circumstances, that this makes you _blessed_.”

A very faint smile had begun to form on Adaar’s lips. “Another joke, Seeker. You’ll ruin your reputation.” She began to walk on and Cassandra fell into step beside her. “It’s a relief to know that you don’t expect me to pull miracles out of my arse.”

And there was the crudity again. Cassandra made a disgusted noise before she could stop herself.

Adaar grinned at her properly, the first real smile Cassandra had seen since Haven fell. “It is a great comfort to me that you have not changed, Cassandra.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes, and then they were back at their own fire and there was no more said. It was only later, lying in the tent and listening to the soft snoring of her companions, that it occurred to Cassandra that Adaar was not necessarily talking about the Seeker’s reaction to her crude language.

*          *          *

Inquisitor. They had made her Inquisitor now: the named leader of this ragtag assortment. In some ways it was better than Herald; it was a military and political position and did not suggest that she was holy. It was a relief that she could make decisions now, with the advice of her council, as a leader rather than simply contribute to discussions. She had power as well as responsibility.

But it was also the end of choice, and if she wasn’t careful it could be the beginning of despair. She felt as if she was a bear that someone had hauled in from the wilds and put in shackles and harness and made to haul a wagon, and for all the moaning, roaring protests she might make, there was nothing she could do about it. Perhaps—if Corypheus fell and she lived—she could go back eventually, could be Valo-Kas again. It seemed unlikely, but it was a hope to cling to, and she desperately needed that hope.

It was Cassandra who had led her to it, up the stairs to the Great Hall as if it was just one more conversation. But it was not. Leliana was waiting on the landing, holding a ceremonial sword. “The Inquisition requires a leader,” said Cassandra. “The one who has _already_ been leading it. You.”

People were gathering, looking up. This was a setup.

Were they mad? “I don’t think I heard you right. You want a _Qunari_ as your leader?”

“We want to make official what is already the case,” the Seeker had said, and went on to answer all her objections. They had thought about this carefully.

Adaar had felt cornered, and on the edge of being very angry. She did not like being manipulated. They should have discussed this with her.

But it was true that she had been taking more and more of a leadership role in decisions. And it was she who was the monster’s target; she could hardly avoid being involved in organizing resistance to him. It made strategic sense.

Fucking _strategy_.

“You are not your people, you are an individual,” Cassandra had said. Did she mean that? Did she truly understand what it meant? Adaar had thought that to the Seeker she was simply a Vashoth, the Herald, under the Maker’s hand. But now Cassandra was saying that she was more than that. Did they understand the implications? Did they understand that if they insisted on giving her the power, she would be more than a symbol, that she would _lead_?

If they did... with the Seeker and the other Council members standing at her back, it might be possible.

*          *          *

It was a risk, Cassandra knew. All of them knew that, probably Adaar best of all. But the woman had shown her competence, and had shown that she was willing to take responsibility. It was the best choice they had. The Council had argued about it, and finally come to that conclusion. She hoped that the rest of Thedas would see it the same way.

It was a risk, but they had a chance to build something. They had a place to set their feet, and people to rebuild it into a properly defensible fortress; they would not be taken again as they had in Haven, even if a dragon attacked. The place itself was a little strange, and it was odd that no one had known of its existence save Solas. But the foundations were solid. And that gave her hope.

And Adaar... Adaar gave her hope as well. The woman had survived something that should have killed her; her strength, her perseverance, her _confrontationalism_ , had won out yet again. Perhaps the things that made her so irritating also served a purpose.

*          *          *

It had been interesting talking to Hawke, Adaar thought, interesting to see a legend in the flesh. It was also reassuring, in a way, because in person she seemed no different than anyone else. Well, perhaps that was not entirely true; her personality was expansive and took up more space than was entirely comfortable.

But in the ways that mattered, Hawke was very much an ordinary person. A superlative fighter, yes. But so were people like Cassandra and Bull. And herself; Adaar was not absolutely certain she could take the Champion, but believed there was a good chance of it. If there was time she must look for an opportunity to spar.

But the main thing was that Hawke was not magical, she was not holy. She did not walk through battles waving a mythical blade and watching enemies collapse from fear like a flock of noobling nugs waving their tiny nuggy hands in awe. She fought, and hard. She did the best she could. That was something anyone could do; it was what Adaar was doing, and meeting Hawke gave her hope.

Adaar was doing the best she could with Cassandra, too, though with even less assurance. Cassandra did not burrow into warm and ticklish spots as Josephine did; she was far more aloof and uncomfortably prickly. But she had somehow, all the same, insinuated herself into a place from which Adaar could not dislodge her. She had become _interesting_.

Adaar had slept with human mercenaries a couple of times, but for the most part she kept to other Vashoth or Tal-Vashoth in her own or other mercenary companies. With them, she understood the rules. With them she was not seen as titillatingly exotic. Sometimes people from other races wanted to sleep with her just to say they’d fucked an oxwoman. And though no one had yet said it to her face, all Tal-Vashoth knew very well that some people considered them no better than animals—and some of those people liked fucking animals.

In any case, humans were not particularly attractive to her; they were too small and looked like they would break if you got a little too enthusiastic.

But there were always exceptions. Cassandra, with her broad shoulders and solid muscles and sharp cheekbones and deepset angry eyes, was an attractive woman. Adaar had not had any liaisons since well before the Conclave, and found herself with a surplus of sexual energy. It would be fun to fuck the Seeker, and would relieve her tension.

So she had flirted with the warrior, amused by the contrast between the woman’s pious, upright demeanor and the thought of the same woman lost in the throes of passion. What would it be like to get someone like this between the sheets? “Not as buttoned up as she plays, right?” Sera said to her once, and she expected that it was true. Cassandra’s emotions were easy to read, and it was very obvious when she felt strongly about something. If she was so passionate by nature, she would likely be a lively and rewarding lover.

The Seeker didn’t seem offended by Adaar’s advances, but neither did she respond positively to them. The Vashoth wasn’t entirely sure whether she was even aware that she was being flirted with. She reacted sometimes to Adaar’s comments with embarrassment, but that could just be an innate awkwardness.

It was a little frustrating. In the Tal-Vashoth mercenary companies, sex was easy to come by. For the most part nothing much was meant by it. You had an itch, you scratched it. It was all very straightforward and simply required asking someone if they’d like to go to bed with you.

But this would not be an effective approach with the Seeker, who was exceedingly well bred, even if she had rejected the trappings of her position. Adaar thought that it all came down to the same thing in the end, but the high-borns had their own rituals and requirements, their own games, and she was not at all sure what those were. As flirting had not not succeeded in gaining the reaction she wished, she was not entirely certain what to do next, except to continue.

But then there was the fall of Haven, and for a time there was a great deal more to worry about than who she could get into her bed. After that it would have been sensible to forget about the whole thing and look elsewhere, but somehow by then Cassandra had become intriguing, and bedding her had become a challenge rather than a whim. A challenge that Adaar was not having the least success in winning.

She and Hawke had spoken a little about Isabela, and the reasons for their being separated; Adaar thought it sounded like a flexible and entirely sensible relationship. Varric had written them as in love; Adaar was a little baffled by that part of it. The passion was quite understandable, and the affection, but to have something that would stand the test of such long separations was entirely beyond her experience. It was all very romantic, and the sort of thing she was used to laughing at in novels. Probably the romance really only existed in Varric’s novel—but on the other hand, the relationship had survived more than she would have expected a liaison based on sex and affection to be capable of. But it was not something she felt she could ask Hawke about.

In any case, Hawke’s experience was not likely to be the least bit useful with regard to Cassandra, who was in every way the opposite of Isabela: self-contained, oblivious to suggestive overtures, and a woman whose passions seemed to run to anger and little else. Sometimes Adaar wondered if she was capable of feeling any strong emotion other than rage.

*          *          *

“I should have been more careful,” Cassandra said, anguish in her voice. “I should have been smarter. I don’t deserve to be here. Justinia—”

Adaar, crouched before her, simply stared. She had never seen the kind of despair in Cassandra that she saw now. She had never seen the kind of pain that had showed moments earlier, when she had spoken of the Divine, of the Maker’s will, her voice cracking with emotion. The Seeker had quickly pulled herself together and found her anger at Varric again, but that moment had shaken Adaar. Cassandra was a rock. She did not show weakness.

The Seeker normally did not devalue herself; she knew exactly what her capabilities were, and was matter of fact about them. But it seemed that she truly believed that there was a weight of duty laid on her shoulders and hers alone, and she had failed to live up to her own expectations. She thought she had failed Justinia, failed them all. _You haven’t failed_ , Adaar wanted to say to her. _It is not failure when no one could have done more. Failure is when you don’t even try_.

“Have you _looked_ at our Inquisition, Cassandra?” she said instead. “We’re all fools here.”

Cassandra managed something that was almost a shaky laugh. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Adaar suddenly, unexpectedly, wanted to put out her hand and stroke the Seeker’s cheek. She did not. “More at home, maybe.” Then, after a moment, “Perfection isn’t always within reach. We have to deal with what’s here now, not what might have been if things had gone differently.”

Cassandra looked at her. “But it is trying to reach perfection that makes us better,” she said earnestly. “And that helps us make the world better. That is why we must strive for it.”

Adaar felt a sudden inexplicable surge of fury, and stood. _Do you truly think you can find perfection? Do you believe that all your trying can make a difference? Do you believe that you can change the world? What stories do you tell yourself, fool?_ But all she said was, “It’s arrogant to think that it all rests on you, that the failure is yours alone. And it’s idiocy to think that you should not be here, carrying out Justinia’s legacy. You know your worth. Make your _perfection_ a goal, not a whip to punish yourself with when things don’t go the way you think they should.”

Cassandra straightened abruptly, looking outraged. But then she considered, slowly nodded, and then took a deep, shaky breath. Her eyes were still not happy, but she had relaxed a little. She looked up at the Inquisitor and said, “I want you to know—I have no regrets. Maybe if we’d found Hawke the Maker wouldn’t have needed to send you. But he did. I don’t know how it will end, but I would have it no other way.” There was still a trace of emotion in her voice.

And Adaar was still unsettled by it hours later.

*          *          *

The discovery that Cassandra loved romance novels was a revelation. Adaar did not despise such works; on the contrary, she found them entertaining, particularly the smutty ones, and they provided an excellent escape from reality for an hour or two when things were stressful. But they were not realistic. The emotions described were ridiculously overblown; no one would ever feel or express such things in real life. They were foolish, only good as casual entertainment. They were also thoroughly low-brow literature—and Cassandra was a Nevarran princess. Yet the Seeker, it seemed, took them very seriously.

She was, in fact, a closet romantic. That was unexpected. Cassandra was thoroughly pragmatic; it was one of the things Adaar respected in her. But when the Inquisitor commented on her love of them she defended herself, and the novels, with a passion that was more eloquent than anything Adaar had ever heard from her.

That was downright surprising.

Well. This was something Adaar might actually be able to leverage. Something to soften her attitudes, predispose her favourably to Adaar’s attentions. A word to Varric, and it was arranged.

She had expected to be amused by Cassandra’s reaction to Varric’s delivery of _Swords and Shields_ , and she was; but she also found herself, to her surprise, pleased to have made the Seeker so happy. She was normally so dour that Adaar sometimes wondered if she ever enjoyed life at all. But this actually brought a smile to her face, a real one. And that made something in Adaar twitch unexpectedly. It was adorable.

Adorable. What a ridiculous word to associate with Cassandra.

*          *          *

“I don’t understand human sexual customs,” said Adaar diffidently to Cassandra one day when they were trekking along the Storm Coast. “They seem very complicated.”

“What do you mean?” said Cassandra.

Adaar frowned. “I’ve been reading the novels you lent me,” she said finally. “The hero and heroine always go to such lengths to bed each other, and there’s so much drama. I know that some of it is for the sake of the story, but I don’t understand why they would not just sleep together right away if they are attracted to each other. Without the drama.”

“Is that what Tal-Vashoth do?” asked Cassandra, genuinely curious.

Adaar said nothing for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I only know what my parents and some Tal-Vashoth have said. Tal-Vashoth have left the Qun, which prohibits bonds of passion and sets the Tamassrans to direct who you will breed with, so they must invent themselves. I only know what I have seen in Tal-Vashoth mercenary bands. There—it’s casual. If someone wants someone else, they ask. If the other is interested, they accept. They may or may not stay together more than a night. Sometimes lasting bonds form. But whatever happens, there’s rarely any drama. But humans don’t seem to be so casual about it, except for some Orlesian nobles. And even those relationships are frequently dramatic.”

“Orlesians are not casual at all,” said Cassandra feelingly. “Their romances are carefully planned. They are playing the Game.”

“And that is another thing,” said Adaar, scowling; she seemed thoroughly disapproving of human sexual relations. “The Orlesians who play the Game treat their lovers with great disrespect, and often betray them. If someone sleeps with you, you are exchanging kindnesses, and you owe them courtesy. It is not a contest, not a victory over another to sleep with them.”

“The players of the Game make everything a contest,” said Cassandra. She hesitated. “Humans... Humans do not separate love and physical relations. The act is not seen just as a pleasant physical release, but as an act of love. It carries a great deal of emotional weight; it is very important to most of us. Even to players of the game—their goal is to make someone else care, while they do not, for it shows their strength and the other’s weakness.”

“But—” Adaar was frowning.

“Humans do sleep with each other casually,” said Cassandra. “But our culture says that it should not be casual at all.”

“I see,” said Adaar, sounding as if she did not. That was hardly surprising, thought Cassandra. Human sexual customs were complicated, and not always admirable in their application. For all that she disapproved of romantic relations that were only for the sake of physical release, it seemed that there could be some honour in them after all, if Adaar’s attitudes were typical.

*          *          *

Adaar liked Dorian, and had liked him from the start. This was to some degree a surprise: on the whole she did not trust mages. There were exceptions, of course; the mages attached to the Valo-Kas had been friends, but she those she had known for a long time. She supposed that the mages attached to the Inquisition were decent enough, though Solas and Vivienne were infuriating in their different ways.

But Dorian amused her, and despite his origins she had no trouble in trusting him. He put on a performance, and she understood exactly where its borders lay, and how the deluge of words and drama guarded something more vulnerable. “Congratulations on that whole leading-the-Inquisition thing, by the way,” he had said as an afterthought to another conversation when they made her Inquisitor; the casualness of it was carefully calculated, she thought, to skewer not just any incipient pride she might feel but also her worries. She was grateful for his sly wit; it helped her set her feet more firmly. She suspected that he understood her as well as any in the Inquisition could, despite the great disparity of their positions and experience.

He was an outsider. So was Cole, so was Sera, in their varied ways. She knew that some questioned her acceptance of them as allies—certainly Cassandra had turned red with suppressed outrage over all of them—but she understood them in ways that she did not understand Vivienne or the Seeker. Outsiders know outsiders.

*          *          *

The Tevinter mage who had come to Haven to warn them of the mage army’s approach was not to be trusted. It was true that he had helped them, and in doing so had gone against his own people. But he was still Tevinter; he might be a spy of the magisters, even if he was not one of the Venatori cult. He was too brash and too supercilious and far too talkative. He was too—much. He bore his wit like a weapon, the kind that Cassandra had never learned to turn. She did not exactly dislike him, but he made her nervous.

She did not understand why Adaar got on so well with him, seemed to like him so much, trusted him. He was shallow; he cared nothing for serious matters and seemed to have no faith to guide him. And yet they seemed thick as thieves, Dorian murmuring in the Herald’s ear, she with a small smile on her face, broad shoulders touching his, listening to him jabber. It made Cassandra’s fingers twitch when he got too near the Inquisitor. She disliked seeing Adaar spend so much time with him. It was not that she thought Adaar was weak and would fall under his influence; the Herald was thoroughly hard-headed. But there were better things she could be doing with her time. She was the Herald of Andraste; the Maker had sent her to them to help them in this time of trials. Such a questionable ally could show the Inquisition in a bad light. The Inquisitor should be more careful in who she chose as a friend.

When she learned of his conflict with his father, and the reasons for it, Cassandra was surprised. She had not realized that Dorian’s tastes ran only toward men, and had thought that there might be some romantic stirrings beginning between him and Adaar, which would of course have been entirely unsuitable. But evidently she was wrong, as she had so often been wrong about her understanding of romance that was not within the pages of a book. It seemed that Dorian had not been trying to seduce the Inquisitor after all.

What _were_ Adaar’s romantic interests? It occurred to her that she was not entirely sure. She had borrowed some of Cassandra’s novels, once the Seeker had admitted to owning them, but that did not demonstrate anything except an appreciation of romance—though that in itself was surprising, she thought. She had seen Adaar flirt with most members of her inner circle, in a perfunctory sort of way that did not seem particularly serious, and certainly she flirted with the Seeker herself. The flirting with Dorian was why she had thought the Inquisitor might have some interest in him, as he had enthusiastically flirted back. But when she thought about it, Adaar did not seem to have followed through with anyone in all the time that Cassandra had known her. Exactly what—and who—drew her interest remained a mystery.

*          *          *

Adaar looked almost regal in her uniform, Cassandra thought. It was not that the Inquisitor did not have presence before that—she had a great deal—but it was understated, and she was oddly self-effacing despite her size. Put her all in red and gold and black, however, and she was imposing. Her pale eyes shone in the light of the sconces, the shadows danced on her skin, the silverite capping the stumps of her horns caught the light in flickers. She became the focus of all eyes, all whispers, at the Winter Palace.

She didn’t think Adaar liked it very much.

Small wonder. The things they said, the speculation, the comments, were appalling. But through it all Adaar was calm and focused and had managed to accomplish a great deal.

“I cannot believe that the Inquisition has put this animal as its figurehead,” she overheard someone say at one point. “What were they thinking? It is fortunate that there are _some_ intelligent minds on their Council, at least, for someone has to be able to strategize, to plan.”

Cassandra ran her hand through her hair and counted backwards. It would not do to thrash a potential ally, no matter how tempting.

 _Adaar is better than a dozen of them put together_ , the Seeker thought. _They are useless parasites. She is the Herald, the Inquisitor. She fights to save the world while they play their Great Game. They should be thanking the Maker that she stands between them and their doom, and all they do is treat her as a beast. Would that we could leave them to their fate._

*          *          *

The ball at the Winter Palace, had been, for the most part, boring. There was an enormous amount of tedious formality and jockeying for position. Adaar had to force herself to remember to follow Josephine’s coaching, which had achieved a slightly frantic edge as they arrived at Halamshiral.

 _Strategy_ , she told herself. _This is no different than planning and executing a complicated raid_.

But it _was_ different. You did not have to pay attention to what people _said_ during a raid; you just flattened or skewered them. At least she was good at maintaining an impassive demeanour; she doubted that any had been able to read anything into her responses. But the work of exploring the palace, uncovering the plots, the fighting—that had been a great relief. When it was all over, and the politics settled, she was pleased with the results. But they could not return to Skyhold too soon.

She had not been bothered by the whispering. But she had been bothered by Cassandra.

It had been startling to see her advisors and companions wearing formal uniforms instead of their usual garb. Leliana’s unhooded, perfectly coiffed hair had set Iron Bull to rumbling appreciatively. Josephine looked like what she was: an extremely competent general. Cullen actually had impressive shoulders, even without the normal mane of fur.

Most of her companions cleaned up well. Sera looked entirely different, and almost carried authority, at least until she opened her mouth. Vivienne, unlike the others, looked slightly _less_ impressive than usual, but had accepted the need for the uniform with resignation, if not with appreciation.

But Cassandra... Adaar had become accustomed to seeing her in her everyday clothing and armour. Cassandra did not trouble to occasionally experiment with fashion as most of the others did, even Sera, even Bull. Her clothing was plain and workmanlike, apart from a few touches like the crystals on her sleeves and collar. But in uniform, she was spectacular, the colours accentuating her dark hair and her eyes, the elegance of her form. She was _impressive_ , and for the first time it was not hard to see her as what she was: a princess of the royal line, a high-ranking military officer. _Fucking hells, she is as beautiful as a dragon in flight and just as lethal. I’m not sure which is more attractive_. Adaar found herself stunned into silence by the first sight of her, but got herself under control, she thought, before anyone could notice.

The flirting had not been going well. She kept trying, but Cassandra did not respond. It was like trying to flirt with a rock that was less intelligent than usual. Could she really be that oblivious? It was probably that Cassandra did not see her as a person so much as the Herald of Andraste.

Normally, lacking a response, she would have moved on, but this time she didn’t want to. She was not certain why she had fixated so firmly on Cassandra, who was so inconveniently resistant, but whatever the reasons, it had happened. She _liked_ the Seeker. She liked spending time with her. She preferred spending time with Cassandra over the others. Such attractions in the past had always quickly worn off, but this one did not seem inclined to do so. Perhaps it was because she had not bedded her; but she had not bedded everyone who attracted her, and had never felt this persistent compulsive itch, an itch that drove her to stare at Cassandra when she thought no one would notice. She stared at Cassandra’s mouth and thought of kissing it. She stared at Cassandra’s biceps and thought of them wrapped around her, tense and straining. She stared at Cassandra’s breasts and— No, she had decided, she had better not stare at Cassandra’s breasts.

And now she was staring again, she was staring like a goobly farmboy who’d never had anything to fuck but sheep. Probably it had just been too long since she’d been laid.

Anyway. Now here they were at the Winter Palace, and Cassandra was taking her breath away and leaving her with hands that felt as if they were shaking, even though she could see no tremors in them. She looked so different that it would have seemed as if someone had replaced the Seeker, had she not been so characteristically bad-tempered; she had an even more intimidating demeanour than usual. Adaar suspected it was to head off compliments and inappropriate suggestions.

Josephine had coached the Inquisitor carefully; there were opportunities for advancement of their cause not just in words but in dancing; this skill was a weapon as well, the Ambassador had said.

She had rolled her eyes and groaned. “Do you really want a lumbering Qunari flattening the precious toes of the nobles, Josephine?” she had said, but the Ambassador had narrowed her eyes and gotten stubborn in that implacable way she had, and she had Leliana and Vivienne’s support. Adaar, faced with trifold immovable determination, had in the end meekly acceded. Eventually she had found the precision of the steps fascinating in their own right and ended up with some degree of competence. More or less.

Perhaps dancing might provide opportunities other than diplomatic. Perhaps if she could touch the Seeker she might awaken some interest? She thought of putting her hands on Cassandra and her mouth went dry. _Fuck_. Perhaps the Seeker would begin to see her as a person, as desirable? Adaar gathered her courage.

Why did this require courage? That was nonsense. She was simply asking Cassandra to dance. She was simply trying to get Cassandra into her bed. _Hornheaded idiot, pull yourself together_.

She had not expected the Seeker to accept, not really. But she was not expecting to feel quite so much disappointment when Cassandra refused her.


	3. Circling

Cassandra still would not trust Sera near the Inquisition’s coffers, but she had to admit that the rogue was a good fighter. And she had other qualities that were worthy of admiration, even if they took some digging to find.

For some reason Sera seemed fascinated by her, and persisted in chattering to her when they were on expedition. At first the Seeker had ignored her words as ignorant nonsense, but that had been a mistake. Sera could be rude and aggressive—she teased, she prodded, she provoked, sometimes driving the Seeker in circles of confusion—but occasionally she said something that took the Seeker aback with its perception. She made no sense at all, and then she made perfect sense.

Cassandra had never before spoken with a commoner who did not respect her position and was not afraid to say what she thought, apart from Adaar, and the Inquisitor’s relative level of power made the equivalency false. Sera was a window into a different world, the Seeker thought at first, and said so. The rogue just laughed at her.

“I’m not your friggin’ window, Seeker,” she said. “Make your own. You just need to shut up and listen, right? Like there’s something important to listen to, even if they don’t say it all fancy-ass like you do? ‘Cause it’s not just nobby-tits who say stuff. Just pay attention!”

The Inquisitor’s decision to take Sera on as part of the Inquisition might be questionable in some respects, Cassandra thought, but she no longer thought it entirely wrong.

She was still not certain why Adaar helped the Red Jennies so often, though. Surely if the cause they fought for was a good one, the Jennies would offer their help without the requirement for recompense? But when she said something about that to Sera, the elf just glared at her.

“Are you daft? Jennies are _poor_. They can’t afford to do stuff for nothing. It’s all trade and trade about. It’s all something for something. And if you think the frigging nobles are doing it for free, because they _believe_ , you’re out of your skull. Nobles want their cut. Jennies just want enough to keep going, little things that make a difference to real people. _Real_ things that matter.”

Sera had a point about the nobles, Cassandra had to admit.

But at Verchiel, Adaar’s choices shook Cassandra; the woman seemed to be able to disconcert her without half trying. The trip to pick up the Red Jennies’ “reward” was a trap set by one of the nobles the Inquisition’s troops had discomfited. He admitted freely to participating in a conflict over land, moving people and disposing of them as if they were pieces on a game board. He offered a partnership and clearly expected the Inquisitor, as a person with power, to ally with him in some way. He was, in short, the perfect illustration of privileged, arrogant nobility.

He might have gotten away with his life if he had not demonstrated his contempt for those he considered beneath him quite so clearly. But Adaar nodded at Sera, and the rogue tossed him her knife to defend himself with—and when he picked it up, she moved. Clearly he did not expect the attack, and the beating the rogue gave him was vicious. Cassandra was not at all certain whether she _intended_ to kill him, but she suspected that it was not accidental.

She had not expected Adaar to encourage such brutality, and it disturbed her. There was little opportunity for them to speak privately on the way back to Skyhold, but eventually she got the Inquisitor on her own in a way that she hoped did not look as if she was trying to corner her.

“At Verchiel,” she said, “you allowed Sera to kill Harmond.” Adaar nodded. “Why?”

“Why did I not accept his offer, you mean?” said Adaar.

“I did not expect you to do that,” said Cassandra stiffly. “But we are trying to find allies for the battle against Corypheus. Interfering in a conflict between nobles and killing one does not seem like good strategy. It will make it harder to recruit other nobles.”

Adaar examined the palm of one hand, and began picking at a sliver. Her hands were surprisingly delicate for someone of her size, long-fingered and dexterous. “It is true that it was not _diplomatic_ of me,” she said after a moment, “and Josephine will probably have something to say about it. But if we had not overpowered him he would have killed us, Inquisition or no. He knew we were Inquisition soon enough, and didn’t call off his men. Now the nobles will know that the Inquisition does not play games.” She sighed. “Perhaps I could have forced him to work for us. But he would not have been trustworthy, and would have looked for a way to betray us. His kind always do.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Adaar looked at her with a slight frown. “It was all a game to him. His people were only pieces he moved on a board. They were not real.”

“That is the Great Game,” said Cassandra. “Almost all Orlesians play it.”

“But not all play it as he did,” said Adaar. “Some try to protect their people as they play. I don’t care for nobles, on the whole—you know this—but I’ve known some who were decent. He was not one of them. He had no loyalty but to himself. The Jennies know far more about loyalty than he did.”

“But—”

“You do not abuse the trust of the people you are responsible for,” said Adaar in a tone of finality, and turned away.

*          *          *

It would have been easier if Cassandra’s presence did not affect her so much. She had begun to find herself reacting to the woman’s scent, the warmth that radiated off her after she had exerted herself. To the sight of muscles sliding under sweat-dampened skin. To the look of her hands, hard and scarred, when she removed her gauntlets; that was one of the worst things, because the Seeker almost always wore gauntlets, making the sight of her hands a rarity, and because when she saw them uncovered Adaar would think of touching those hands and more, of those hands touching her, of naked skin against skin. She _wanted_.

It would have been easier, as well, if Cassandra did not react to her. But she did, though Adaar did not think she was aware of it. And the tension that grew between them—that aroused Adaar even more.

_If I could just get her in my bed. Just once. Maybe twice. Maybe I could stop feeling like a halfwitted bronto in rut._

But there was something else that was part of the tension. Something she could not quite put her finger on. Something that was not purely the heat of wanting.

It was frustrating, in every sense of the word.

*          *          *

Sparring with Adaar was a delight. There were few who could hold their own against Cassandra, could truly challenge her skill, but Adaar was one of them. When they fought she felt as if all her senses were elevated. She could hear every grunt, the creak of leather, the sound of metal, could smell leather and oil and sweat, taste dirt and crushed grass and copper in her mouth, all distinct and weighted and separate as a shower of coins. The balance of her sword and shield, their weight and heft, felt perfect. Even the light seemed different, somehow clearer and more piercing. She could see the sheen of sweat, the flow of purple shadows on silvery skin. There was a tension when they locked eyes—who would be the first to be careless, to give away their intentions, to be countered? Who would overcome who, in the end?

It stretched her. It exalted her. Who would not love sparring with the Inquisitor?

*          *          *

“I think,” said Dorian, “that you have been out of sorts recently, Inquisitor. You need to do something to relieve your tension.”

They were riding through the Exalted Plains at the time, lagging behind Cassandra and Varric, who were arguing vehemently about something. Yet another place full of undead, to Adaar’s displeasure, although at least this time it was dry.

“I _have_ ways to relieve tension,” said Adaar. “I kill things. There are plenty of things to kill here. Even if most of them are already dead.”

“That is not the kind of tension I had in mind,” said Dorian, “though it is of course fulfilling in its own way. I had in mind something more personal, more _intimate_. But of course, there is the problem of finding someone suitable.”

“What are you, a village matchmaker?” said Adaar, amused.

“I would be the perfect solution, of course,” said Dorian, examining his fingernails with satisfaction, “were you not so inconveniently female. But in the absence of such perfection, we must consider alternatives. Vivienne is—”

“You _cannot_ be serious,” said the Inquisitor.

“Perhaps not,” said Dorian, consideringly. “Sera would be fun, however. And Sera thinks that Qunari are... well, if I repeated it I am sure that I would begin to blush.”

“No,” said Adaar firmly.

“Leliana?”

“Definitely not.”

“Josephine?”

“No.” She stopped a moment, struck. “You are not proposing any men.”

Dorian surveyed her. “Not at the moment, I think.”

Adaar laughed. “You are very firm in your opinions.”

“I am indeed,” he agreed. “And generally they are accurate. What about Cassandra?”

“No,” she said, just a fraction of a second too slowly.

“Aha!”

“No,” she repeated, with more emphasis.

“Why not?”

“We would kill each other within the first week,” said Adaar. “I am happy as I am, Dorian.”

“Are you?” he said, with an interrogatory tilt of his head. “Or are you simply enduring?” She said nothing, giving an irritated growl, and he let it drop.

*          *          *

Adaar could take a lot of damage and shrug it off. Beyond a physical jolt when hit she did not generally show signs of pain; Cassandra wondered if she even felt it in the same way a human would.

But they had been fighting an Arcane Horror and its undead minions on the Western Ramparts when a rage demon appeared unexpectedly at their backs. All of them had been hurt, but the demon had gotten past Cassandra and Adaar had been badly burned, and they were out of potions. It was a long, uncomfortable trek back to camp.

Adaar chose to walk, even though the greathorse Dennet had given her was with them and the others were all riding. “I have a burn in an uncomfortable place,” was all she said.

The camp was probably two hours walk away; Cassandra was very thankful that it was not further. After the first hour Adaar, who had been leading them, told her to take point, and dropped behind. A little later Varric rode up beside her. “You might want to slow down, Seeker,” he said quietly.

Cassandra looked over her shoulder. Adaar had fallen to the back of the line, and was lagging; she had her hand knotted in the straps of her horse’s saddle, and her head was down. Dorian was riding beside her, and looked worried. Cassandra turned her horse and rode back. “Inquisitor?”

Adaar looked up. Her face was expressionless, but she was sweating. “What?”

“Is it possible for you to ride?” said Cassandra.

“No,” said Adaar.

Cassandra made a decision. “Then you and I will wait here. Varric and Dorian can ride and bring back healing potions more quickly than it would take us all to get to camp.”

“I can walk,” said Adaar.

“Yes,” said Cassandra, “but it is not necessary. We will save time in the end if the potions are fetched.” She looked at the others. They nodded wordlessly and rode off at a good clip.

Cassandra dismounted and knotted her horse’s reins over the saddle; well trained, it would not wander. Adaar was still standing by her horse; the Seeker reached for her arm and tugged. The Inquisitor slowly released her grip on the strap and let herself be pulled away.

There were rocks protruding from the dusty ground; Cassandra set herself on one. Adaar looked at them and then carefully lowered herself to the dirt and leaned against a stone and did not move until Cassandra offered her water.

After drinking Adaar closed her eyes and appeared to go to sleep, something she did regularly when on expedition; rest was something to be grabbed when one could. Cassandra kept watch. It was quiet, though; there appeared to be no dangers in the immediate vicinity. Intermittently she studied the Inquisitor. She doubted that she was really asleep. There were places where her armour was badly charred, especially on her legs, and the Seeker didn’t like thinking about what might be underneath. There were lines on Adaar’s face that were not normally there, though otherwise she showed no signs of discomfort. It occurred to Cassandra for the first time that perhaps she should re-evaluate her ideas about Qunari immunity to pain.

“Tell me about the Seekers,” said the Inquisitor without opening her eyes.

“What do you wish to know?” said Cassandra, baffled by the sudden question.

“Anything,” said Adaar. “I know nothing about them. What’s the training like? How old were you when you started? What kind of food do they give apprentices? I don’t know, anything.”

She was asking for a distraction, Cassandra realized. “I became an apprentice when I was twelve years old,” she said. “But most start when they are six.”

“Why were you so old?”

“It’s a long story,” said Cassandra. “I will trade it for one telling me about your early years as a mercenary, and how you came to be one.”

“Deal,” said Adaar. “You first.”

It was a long tale, and Cassandra had not finished by the time the others returned. “I’ll want to hear the rest later,” said the Inquisitor briefly, and then drank down the potions Dorian had brought. After that, slowly, she relaxed, and it was only then that Cassandra realized how tightly she had been holding herself.

The deal had been forgotten, Cassandra realized a few days later; she never had gotten Adaar’s story, and now she had ridden out again for some diplomatic business with Bull, leaving the Seeker behind. But there would be other times.

*          *          *

“Call the retreat,” said Adaar, without hesitation. There was no question of the rightness of the decision. But she did not know if Bull would do it; he was Ben-Hassrath. He was of the Qun.

But he did it. And then he was no longer of the Qun.

It changed things. Obviously it changed Bull, though he seemed to take it philosophically. He had chosen the Chargers over his duty, and now he was Tal-Vashoth, and must find his own way. But in truth, she thought, he had been finding his own way for a long time.

It affected her as well. Until then he had been Ben-Hassrath, and to Adaar that meant an enemy. She had muted her reaction to him for the good of the Inquisition, though as she had once said to Cassandra, it would take a great deal for Bull to be able to prove to her that he could be trusted. But now he had put personal loyalties above the things he had been taught, above the thing that had been at the centre of his life. It might be possible that she could learn to trust him.

He was a spy by training, and perceptive, and recognized that her attitude toward him had altered. They circled each other warily, and tentatively began to interact a little beyond the contacts which their duties set them. An ale shared here, a conversation there. It became a little easier. Eventually he began to ask her a little about her experience as a Vashoth, and that of the Tal-Vashoth she had known. He was feeling his way into a new place, she thought. She, in turn, asked him a little about the Qun, and what was expected of Qunari within it; there were things about her parents that she had never understood that became clearer.

It was odd, she thought. She had been raised outside the Qun, and he within, and yet sometimes she thought he was easier to understand than humans. Certainly easier than some humans.

*          *          *

The spirit, Cole, was still unnerving, but Cassandra was no longer afraid that he might turn into a demon. She was more worried about what he might say out loud when he pulled out the thoughts in someone’s head. At first his remarks had seemed random, nonsensical, but eventually she had realized that they did in fact make a great deal of sense, if one understood the context from which he was speaking, and whose mind he was rooting about in. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—that was not always clear.

Private thoughts were supposed to be _private_. Exposing them could be embarrassing, and sometimes dangerous. It seemed ironical that a spirit of Compassion, which Solas had said he was, could say things to such devastating effect. But he clearly had no understanding of why the truth should not always be spoken; he was a true innocent in that regard. And she was a Seeker of Truth; if anyone should appreciate his willingness to speak truth, it was she. But on the whole she would prefer that he did not speak any of her thoughts aloud.

The Inquisitor had been unusually silent walking the trails through the Emerald Graves. Solas had spoken of the land’s history, and since then she had said little. “You are quiet today, Adaar,” said Cassandra eventually, walking beside her.

“I have been thinking,” said the Inquisitor briefly. “There is a weight of death here that is... an interesting contrast with the beauty of this place.”

“The lash cuts,” said Cole abruptly, behind them. “Slashing, slicing, stand against the pain. Panting, pulling at the ropes, proud, I will not bend. Battle, blood, and bindings. The humans take, and others fall, and no one will remember.”

Adaar turned her head to look at him, her expression blank, while Cassandra tried to work out what any of it could possibly mean. But then the Inquisitor abruptly smiled.

“Look,” she said, “a giant!”

They could have easily avoided it—giants were notoriously near-sighted—but by that time Adaar had her sword out and was already charging. Cassandra sighed to herself as she swung her shield into place and followed. The Inquisitor was almost as bad about giants as she was about dragons.

*          *          *

There were a great number of giants, and for some days it seemed they were everywhere they turned. When the latest fight was over Adaar limped a few steps over to sit on a boulder and began to take stock of her injuries. Broken ribs, probably. Nasty slash on the thigh, a little too close to a major artery to be comfortable. Another one along her neck. That could have been bad. A crack over the head that had given her a nasty headache. Bruises, scrapes. Nothing serious. She swallowed a potion. That would take care of everything except the headache; somehow those always took their own damned time to dissipate.

And then Cassandra was there. Standing in front of her, and right in her face. With all the intensity of presence that an angry Seeker could exude.

And she was angry, oh yes, she was certainly angry.

“What do you think you were doing?” she roared. Adaar sitting was only a little shorter than the Seeker, but it felt as if she was looming. Cassandra just naturally loomed, Adaar thought. “That giant nearly killed you!”

Adaar didn’t pretend she didn’t know what the Seeker was on about. It had been a stupid move, though not entirely uncalculated. “I’m alive. You’re alive.”

“Only through luck!” The Seeker really was furious. She was practically trembling with rage, and her hand was on the hilt of her sword. Adaar could see Dorian and Sera beyond her. The mage looked nervous, Sera looked both entertained and apprehensive. “I did not need your assistance.”

The last was patently untrue, and both of them knew it. “It’s done,” said Adaar. Her temper was beginning to rise, though she knew her face was still calm. “Leave it.”

“I will not!” shouted Cassandra, leaning forward. “Someone must drive some sense into your thick skull!”

Her face was scant inches from Adaar’s, glaring. The Inquisitor stared back, her face unmoving. “Enough,” she said carefully. She did not normally allow angry people this close to her, and her reflexes were twitching. “Get out of my face.”

But Cassandra was in full cry. “You are the Herald! We need you! You must not take foolish risks! How could you be so stupid?”

Adaar went very still. “Piss off,” she said, without emphasis.

“Is there nothing but bone inside your skull?” Cassandra started to say, and then Adaar surged to her feet, catching hold of the Seeker as she did, and lifted and threw her.

She landed twenty feet away. Luckily it was on turf, but even so, and even with the reflexive roll she managed when she hit, the breath was half knocked out of her. She staggered to her feet unsteadily, but by that time Adaar was already walking away in the other direction.

“Don’t,” said Dorian as Cassandra took a step after her, and then, as she turned her glare on him, he put up his hands defensively. “Honestly, do you really want to finish what the giant started? Because I think that’s what you’ll have to do if you push her any more today.”

She subsided a little, breathing hard through her nose, and stomped off in the opposite direction from Adaar. Dorian looked at Sera, who rolled her eyes, nodded at him and then in the direction Adaar had gone, and followed Cassandra.

Adaar was sitting on a log near a stream, staring at the water. “Is it safe to approach?” said Dorian. He was quite certain Adaar knew he was there, though she had given no sign of it as he had walked up.

She grunted.

“I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?” he said, and found himself a seat beside her on the log. He chanced a glance sideways at her. She did not look angry; she simply looked tired. She was rubbing a spot near the stump of her horns.

“She was frightened,” he said after a few minutes. “She cares about you.”

“She cares about the Mark,” said Adaar expressionlessly. “No one else can close rifts.”

“It’s more than that,” he began to say, but she interrupted.

“Yes. She also cares about the Herald of Andraste.”

“Adaar—”

“Leave it, Dorian.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. “Will you at least let me do something about your headache?”

She grunted irritably. He got up and moved round behind her and found the pressure points at the base of her skull. She sighed, and her shoulders dropped at least an inch.

*          *          *

Sera found Cassandra standing scowling at the edge of a bluff, staring out. “You okay?” she said. The Seeker made a disgusted noise. Sera squatted beside her, her gaze scanning the forest. “Adaar would have been a good Jenny,” she said eventually. Cassandra looked at her, startled.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” said Sera. “She doesn’t care about ideas. She cares about her people. Not just big people, everyone. She cares about you, Josephine, Leliana, Harritt, Bull, Maeve, everyone.”

“She cannot afford to care about individuals,” said Cassandra stiffly. “It weakens her.”

“Don’t be stupid, it’s _strength_ ,” said Sera. “See, Jennies care about each other, trust each other. Help each other. We’re loyal. It’s what gives us strength to do things when it looks too hard. That’s what Adaar does. She looks at faces and sees the people she wants to protect. She cares about them. _You_ care about people too, but you try to take the faces off them because you think it makes you weaker. That’s shite.”

“There are more important things than individuals,” said Cassandra, but she sounded less certain.

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not—” said Cassandra.

“Look, you’re not going to change her, right?” said Sera. “She doesn’t care about being Herald. She doesn’t care about the politics. She doesn’t care about what you all think an Inquisitor should be and do to suck up to nobles.”

“But these things are _important_ ,” said Cassandra impatiently.

“No,” said Sera, standing up, and cuffed her arm, hard. “Pay attention!” Startled, the Seeker looked at her. “You don’t get it. That’s all just talk, blah blah blah, do it for me, I’ll do it for you, blah blah, how can I screw you over while I do it. She cares about _people_. Her people. _You_. You’d better get used to it. And you’d better start treating her like a person. Just because she doesn’t show much doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel anything.”

“I treat her as a person,” said Cassandra, stung. What on earth was Sera on about?

“What in the name of Andraste’s fucking slidy ladybits do you think it says when you tell a Qunari there’s nothing but bone between their ears?” said Sera furiously. “You been taking lessons from the Orlesian nobs that shoot stuff out of their arses, hey?”

It felt as if she had been poleaxed, the breath driven entirely from her body.

*          *          *

The party moved on in silence, and a couple of hours later set up camp. The evening meal was uncomfortable—neither the Inquisitor nor Cassandra usually said much, but they generally said _something_ —and Dorian’s efforts to hold a conversation with Sera fell flat.

After they ate Adaar took her whetstone and oil and began to work on her blade, as she did every night, slowly and repetitively and methodically, letting it absorb her entire attention. Dorian escaped to the tent he shared with Sera, though a magelight still showed within; likely he was reading. Adaar had taken first watch, and expected Cassandra to retire to the tent they shared. But the Seeker showed no signs of going to bed.

Eventually Sera grumbled a good night and slouched off to her bedroll. Surely the Seeker would go to bed now? But she did not. She had finished her work on her own gear and was staring into the fire. But finally she stood. Good. She would leave, and Adaar could finally relax.

“I am sorry,” said Cassandra then, quietly, and Adaar looked up. The Seeker was standing before her. “I was frightened, earlier today, and it made me angry. I should not have taken my anger out on you.”

Adaar, startled and wordless, managed a grunt and tried to think of a reply.

“I still do not think you should have risked yourself,” said Cassandra, “but likely you saved my life, and I thank you.”

“The Inquisition needs its Seeker,” muttered Adaar, looking away. Really, could she think of anything more half-witted to say?

“Adaar,” said Cassandra, and then waited until the Inquisitor met her eyes. “You are not a fool, nor stupid, nor any of the things I called you. I know very well that you are the opposite of all those things. I know that I said things that are unforgivable. But I hope that you can forgive me for foolish, careless words spoken in anger.” Her voice was stiff and awkward, but she had put out her hand, and there was some kind of unidentifiable emotion in her eyes.

Adaar swallowed. “Yes,” she said, and took Cassandra’s hand and held it for a moment. The Seeker’s hand seemed small in her own. The callouses were hard, the fingers strong, the grip was solid yet gentle. Cassandra squeezed her hand a little and let it drop. She had a hint of a smile on her face now, and did not look nearly so rigid.

“I apologize for throwing you,” said Adaar. “I should not have lost my temper.”

The smile became a little more pronounced. “It was unexpected,” said the Seeker. “I do not think I have ever seen you lose your temper before. And I have certainly been knocked off my feet, but I don’t think that anyone has ever simply picked me up and tossed me aside. But no harm was done.”

“Um,” said Adaar, looking down.

“Good night, Adaar,” said Cassandra then, and turned toward the tent. Adaar stared after her for some time, then finally raked the coals of the fire together and turned away from the light it cast and focused her attention, scanning outward. It would not do to be taken by surprise because her mind was wandering.

*          *          *

_Is it true that I do not treat Adaar as a person?_ Cassandra thought. _Surely not_.

But it was true that she had carelessly said things that would have appalled her if she had heard them in another’s mouth, because she had not thought of the implications of saying them to a Qunari. Adaar was the Herald, and the Inquisitor, and those titles came to mind before her name or race.

But probably not to Adaar.

She thought of the woman in relation to the titles, rather than the other way around. It must be frustrating to always be seen as your office rather than as yourself.

_If I think of her as a woman, rather than as the Herald, as the Inquisitor, what do I see? Someone who is strong in mind and spirit, with a body that is powerful and honed into a beautiful, finely tuned weapon. Someone who can be trusted, who is a friend. Someone who says little, but makes what she says count. Someone who flirts with me. Someone who—_

She stopped, suddenly feeling uneasy. _Just how often does Adaar flirt with me?_ When she thought about it properly, she realized that there had been quite a few times, and that there were times that the Inquisitor might well have been flirting and she had just brushed it off as humour.

It was more times than it should have been if it did not mean something.

*          *          *

When the Seeker did confront her at last about the flirting, Adaar was taken by surprise. She wasn’t sure that Cassandra was interested, exactly, but she had not seemed disinterested, either. But the Seeker was clearly uncomfortable now, and very clear in her rejection of the Inquisitor’s attentions when Adaar asked why it was impossible.

Well, if she didn’t like women there wasn’t much to be done about it. It was a shame; it would have been fun. But at least it cleared up the confusion she had felt as to the Seeker’s responses. And there were plenty of other people around; she would find someone for a fling.

Except... there weren’t, and she didn’t. Sera had seemed interested when she first joined the Inquisition, but she made it clear that she was exclusive, and Adaar didn’t want that kind of relationship. Not with Sera, at any rate. If it had been Cassandra she might actually have considered it... and that was a startling and somewhat unwelcome thought.

No. There was no point in thinking about what might have happened.

Josephine? No. Leliana? Definitely not. She liked Harding, but not that way. She disliked Vivienne. There simply were no women around that drew her attention, that seemed worth the effort.

There were the men, she supposed. Certainly Bull would be available if she asked him. Well, probably. He and Dorian were very thick these days. But he had been Ben-Hassrath. She liked him, she trusted him far more than she had, but he still made her uneasy. And for the others, she had always preferred women over men, and right now she did not want to sleep with a man. She wanted a woman.

One particular woman. That was annoying.

Travelling with Blackwall, Varric, and Dorian, a couple of weeks later, she caught the eye of a barmaid in a small village when she had had too much to drink, and that was good for a night’s entertainment. But she didn’t enjoy it much—the woman seemed far too pleased that she had been bedded by the Inquisitor—and she didn’t do it again. Lying in bed at night, attempting to work off tension, she pleasured herself, but no matter what beautiful body she had noticed during the day and chosen to think about, it always ended up being Cassandra’s body, and worse, Cassandra’s face, that she saw in the end.

It was more than annoying. She _hated_ it.

*          *          *

Once Cassandra had thought about it, the flirting had been obvious. It could have been teasing, done because she was easy to fluster. But recently Adaar rarely flirted with anyone else, and Cassandra’s lack of response had not stopped her. Teasing, in the Seeker’s experience, usually subsided if you could not get a rise out of the subject. But the flirting had not stopped.

It was a compliment, of course, and she was pleased that someone found her desirable. She enjoyed Bull’s flirting as well, for the same reason. But Bull was quite aware that nothing could come of it, and clearly did not expect a response. Adaar, however, did not seem aware that it was impossible. And it was quite impossible, of course. Adaar was her leader, and the Herald of Andraste, and a woman. It was out of the question for any number of reasons.

Adaar’s persistence was worrying, and she had begun to become subtly uncomfortable in the Inquisitor’s presence. But the Inquisitor was gracious when confronted, and immediately stopped her advances. The Seeker hoped that she had not hurt her feelings; it was so hard to know what someone like Adaar felt when they showed so little. She was... perhaps more diffident toward Cassandra, a little more distant, though she was still friendly and otherwise behaved normally. She did not seem upset so much as careful. But then Cassandra did not really expect her to be upset; she knew that the Inquisitor’s attitudes towards physical relations were very casual, unlike her own. Things would be awkward for a little, but they would both adjust.

And indeed Adaar seemed to take the rejection in stride. But the unsettled feelings Cassandra felt in Adaar’s presence had if anything intensified. That made no sense at all.

*          *          *

It was nothing important, just banter between companions; Bull was teasing Cassandra about her defensive style of fighting, that he knew she really wanted to let loose and be more aggressive. “I can feel the frustration in your swings,” he said. And then slyly, “If you need any help with that frustration back in camp, let me know.”

“It’s never going to happen,” said Cassandra.

Something in her voice must have registered, because he immediately said, “Apologies for giving offense. I will stop making invitations, Seeker.”

And then Cassandra said, “I was not offended. Nor did I say you should stop, so long as we are both clear it’s never happening.”

“Works for me,” said Bull cheerfully.

Adaar quietly set her teeth. Cassandra was not offended. She had no intention of taking him up on it, but she did not mind if Bull flirted with her. But she had minded, with Adaar.

She speeded up her pace and looked around for something to kill.

Later that evening, Adaar stood at the top of a cliff near their camp looking out at the valley below. She had wanted to get away from everyone, get away from her own temper. But it was not to be; Dorian followed her and stood looking outward beside her.

“You know that Bull is not really serious about the Seeker, don’t you?” he said quietly.

She snorted. “Why should I care?”

“I thought you might. If I was wrong, I apologize.” She said nothing, and he nodded and ambled back to the camp.

Wonderful. Now people were speculating about her and the Seeker, just when there was nothing at all to speculate about.

*          *          *

It was ridiculous. She was oddly distracted far too often, snagged in a kind of burning restlessness. She was irritable and snappish. She found herself thinking about the Inquisitor’s voice. About her hands, which were long-fingered and surprisingly elegant. About a scar that ran from—

Cassandra might sometimes be slow on the uptake, but she was not entirely oblivious. She might have had only one relationship in her life, but it had lasted for some years. She knew that she had spent time then thinking of someone else in just this way, and she knew exactly why.

She had never been attracted to a woman, and had not thought it possible. To be proved wrong was... disconcerting. But Adaar remained her leader, and the Herald of Andraste. A liaison would not be appropriate. But even more importantly, even if she could find a way beyond those impediments, she did not want the kind of relationship that Adaar could offer, casual and purely physical. She wanted more than that. These feelings must be suppressed.

But all her determination did not quiet the burning, or the unsettled feelings that had lodged in her stomach.

*          *          *

Josephine was rubbing her forehead; it looked like she had a headache again. “Is something the matter, Lady Ambassador?” asked Cassandra, concerned. She thought that Josephine worked far too hard sometimes; there were nights when her light was burning when Cassandra retired (admittedly, earlier than many) and still burning when she emerged in the morning (earlier than most).

“It is nothing important,” said the Ambassador. “It is just that I wished to consult with the Inquisitor on some matters of protocol and she is—unavailable.”

“Perhaps I could find her for you?” offered the Seeker. She had nothing to do at the moment, and would be happy to make Josephine’s life easier. But the Ambassador was shaking her head.

“It is not that I do not know where she is,” she said tartly, and nodded past Cassandra’s shoulder.

The Seeker followed her eyes, and—Maker. The Inquisitor was climbing the highest, least stable—at least so it appeared, based on its shaking—scaffolding in the keep. She reached the top and stood looking down, her hands on her hips. “Done!”

There was a cheer from the ground, and Cassandra saw that there was a group standing at the base of the scaffold. Surely they were not— She made an angry sound in her throat and strode over to them.

They were. Money was changing hands, Sera and Varric at the centre of it all. Sera, it appeared, had dared the Inquisitor to climb to the top of the scaffolding. Varric had been taking bets on whether she would go all the way, and appeared to have bet against her; he looked disgruntled. Sera, on the other hand, had evidently put her money on the Inquisitor, and was pleased by the results.

“What is going on? Are you all mad?” she shouted at them, but they just grinned. “This is not just foolish, it is dangerous!”

Sera blew a raspberry and Varric laughed, unperturbed. “We’re not the ones up there, Seeker,” he said. “Go yell at the Inquisitor.”

She was angry enough that she did not think twice; she snarled at him and started climbing.

Cassandra had always had a good head for heights. But she preferred to climb things that were solid, like trees or rockfaces. The scaffolding shook under her weight in unnerving ways. Would it hold both of them? Of course it would, the workers used it, and there was more than one of them up it at a time.

But none of them were Qunari.

No, but they were working with stone. It would hold.

Probably.

By the time she reached the top her initial annoyance had combined with the effects of the shaky structure on her nerves. And that, with the addition of cheering from below and a glimpse of more money changing hands, was enough  to set her off in a full-blown explosion. “What are you doing?” she shouted when she caught Adaar’s eye. The Inquisitor was sitting now, her legs dangling over the edge. “You have better things to do than risk yourself climbing scaffolding on a bet! You should not be—”

“Shut it,” said Adaar. Her voice was not overly loud, but it was curt and cut through Cassandra’s tirade.

The Inquisitor was not usually so directly rude. Cassandra gaped, then opened her mouth again.

“Sit down,” said the Inquisitor before she could say anything. Cassandra hesitated, and Adaar said, irritably, “Sit! And look.”

She sat beside Adaar, tentatively letting her legs dangle over the edge, and looked. They were very high. Below them the activity of the keep went on; a small group was staring hopefully up, but as nothing happened it began to disperse. They could see over the keep’s walls; beyond lay the mountains, high and barren and cold. There was a light breeze blowing up here, and it was a little colder than the air below, but it was not unpleasant. “What am I looking for?” Cassandra said a little uncertainly.

“The mountains,” said Adaar after a moment. “The keep. This place is a miracle, isn’t it? Look around—it’s all ice and snow. But we have gardens. It shouldn’t be possible.”

It was true, and everyone knew it, and Cassandra had heard many theories as to why it was so. “You did not need to come up here to see that,” she said.

“No,” said Adaar. “But it's quiet here.”

It was quiet. Cassandra sat very still, looking to the mountains, and let the sounds from the bailey drift past her. Adaar sat large and solid beside her, radiating warmth. The Seeker had an urge to shift closer to her, so that their shoulders touched. She could feel warmth low in her belly. She swallowed and did not move and attempted to think of something else.

Adaar seemed very relaxed sitting there. It was almost as if... Cassandra frowned. “You have come up here before.”

Adaar had a wicked smile, sometimes. “Yes. But it didn’t seem fair to interfere with Varric’s betting by saying so.”

“Why here?”

“No one follows me,” said Adaar simply. Then she looked sidelong at Cassandra. “Usually.” She sighed. “This is the first time I’ve done it with people watching. Now that they know I can, they will know to look for me here.”

Cassandra sat in silence. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I did not realize.” She began to shift her weight. “I will leave you alone.”

“You don’t have to go,” said the Inquisitor. “I don’t mind the presence of a friend who is not asking me to do something.”

Cassandra sat unmoving. “Are we friends, still?” she said after a little.

Adaar looked at her. “Are we not?” Her face gave nothing away.

“I hope we are,” said Cassandra, looking down between her feet. Morris was crossing the yard now, and had stopped to speak to Harding. “I know that you wanted more.”

Adaar smiled then, without humour. “The world, the Maker if you like, doesn’t always give us what we want. But I would like to be friends.”

It should have reassured her, but it did not. The heat in her belly was still there, together with a clawing knot of tension that she did not understand, and she could not put it down to the fear of the drop below her feet, although she tried to.

*          *          *

Friends. Yes, they could be that. Since they would never be lovers, she would take what she could get.

Lovers. What a load of bullshit that word carried. Much better to stick to fuck-buddies, it was far more accurate, far more honest. That was what she wanted, after all. A good fuck. With Cassandra. There wasn’t any more to it than that. Nothing else. Just hot, aching bodies and sweaty skin sliding on skin and hard breathing. Nothing more than that.

But there was an ache she felt when she thought of Cassandra, an ache that shot through her forearms and wrists, her hands and fingers, a pulsing snake of pain that rose and fell, leaving her hands empty. She wasn’t sure what she should call that. And she didn’t know what to call the hollowness that seemed to have lodged in her guts when she thought of Cassandra saying the final words, the inarguable words, the words that had finally ended everything.

Not love, certainly.

*          *          *

It might seem strange to some people, Cassandra thought—in many ways it seemed strange to her—but she had begun, occasionally, to drink with Varric. It had started as a more general kind of socializing, with other people, but there were times now when there were just the two of them, and it was not actually unpleasant. He would not forgo his barbed comments, and he teased her relentlessly about her liking for _Swords and Shields_ , but her affection for the book seemed to have weakened some of the resentment that he held against her. He did not like her, she was certain, but he was not as actively hostile as he had been. It probably helped that she was genuinely interested in his writing, and now that she was not actively trying to extract information from him he sometimes answered her questions.

Though he would still never, she reflected sadly, give away any clear hint of the direction of future plots.

She had already been in the tavern for an hour, talking to Blackwall. It was getting late and he had gone to his quarters, but she was not quite ready to leave. She had not intended to speak with Varric about love and romance and all that it entailed when she took her tankard and sat down at the table with him. Dorian and Bull were at the other end, their heads together, talking about something intently, and did no more than nod at her.

But Varric had begun by taunting her. “How’s the love life, Seeker? Oh, wait, I suppose you have to have friends before you can have a lover.”

She ignored the insult, but it reminder her of something. “Varric,” she said, “I do not understand the way you have written Hawke and Isabela.”

He blinked at her. “What’s to understand? It’s all pretty straightforward.”

“I do not understand their relationship,” she said. “For most of the story they are simply trying to survive. Neither of them holds any strong ideals. And Isabela is the next best thing to a whore. I do not understand why Hawke was attracted to her.”

“That’s because you haven’t met Isabela,” said Varric drily.

“I understand the physical attraction perfectly well,” she said, irritated. “Some people are compelling even if they are inappropriate. But I do not understand why you have written them as in love.”

Varric looked baffled. “Because they were? And still are, for all of that.”

“But it is so unbelievable! There is so little to base that love on. And if what you write is true, Isabela is still not entirely faithful.”

Varric stared at her, blinking. “You do understand, Seeker, that _Tale of the Champion_ is my one work of non-fiction? Technically, anyway. I may have exaggerated some things, but I didn’t exaggerate Hawke and Isabela. If anything, I held back.”

“But they are too different, too incompatible, for it to make sense! There must be something you have left out.”

Varric had an expression that looked as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether to laugh or not. “Love doesn’t make sense, Seeker, don’t you know that?”

“But—”

“Look right here at this table. Have you ever seen anything more unlikely than a Tevinter mage and a Qunari spy?”

Bull looked up. “Not a spy anymore. But I suppose I was spying when I got into his pants. I was sure looking for _something_ in there. What do you think, _kadan_ , are we unlikely?”

“Unlikely?” scoffed Dorian. “Of course not. I cannot think of anything more probable than that I would take up with a great unwashed oaf like you.”

“You like it,” said Bull. “How else would I get you into a bath with me? And we both know what happens when the horn balm—”

“All right,” Cassandra said hastily, “I will give you that they are an unlikely pair as well. And I am quite capable of believing in them. But I still do not think that Hawke and Isabela are realistic. I can understand them being friends. I can understand the sexual attraction. But I cannot believe in their love. Sometimes there is a line in logic that cannot be crossed.”

Varric shook his head. “You’re the sort of person who draws lines that can’t be crossed, Seeker, who sets hard boundaries, not me. And you can do that, anyone can do that. You can set boundaries that say, ‘This person is a friend but you couldn’t pay me to have them in my bed.’ Or you can set boundaries that say, ‘This person is a friend and whoa, are they ever hot, but I’m still not going to have them in my bed.’ Or you can set boundaries that say, ‘This person is a friend and hot and how soon can I get them in my bed?’ Or you can say, ‘They’ll never be in my bed unless we’re in love, and I can only be in love with a certain kind of person.’ You can set all the boundaries you like. But sooner or later someone will come along and they’ll smash those boundaries to smithereens, and there won’t be a damn thing you can do about it.” And he got up and walked off to get Cabot to refill his mug.

_Boundaries_ , thought Cassandra. _He is right. I have set boundaries around me. I will not sleep with someone that I do not love, or that does not love me_.

_That is not the problem. The problem is that I do not understand why the boundary itself is not clear. The attraction is on the other side of a boundary I will not cross, and that does not bother me. But I do not understand why the friendship that Adaar offers disturbs me. Her friendship is on the side of the line that I accept, that I want._

She stared at the tankard in her hands, feeling frustrated and angry and wound tight as a crossbow. _We are friends. Adaar said that she wished friendship. She accepted the line that I set. The problem is not with her, but with me, and I do not know how to resolve it, or even how to understand it. But I cannot leave it like this._


	4. The Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this would be the one with the angst.

Adaar had seen little of Cassandra for a week, to the point that she began to wonder if the Seeker was avoiding her. It seemed unlikely, but Cassandra was mysteriously absent from her usual haunts, and did not come to the tavern for the regular game of Wicked Grace.

She was thoroughly surprised, therefore, when the Seeker came up the stairs to her quarters late one evening and said, “I want to talk to you.”

“All right,” said Adaar, her stomach sinking. The last time Cassandra had wanted to talk to her privately it had not gone well. “Sit. Talk. Do you want a drink?”

“No,” said Cassandra, sitting on the settee as far away from Adaar as she could get, then, “Yes. Brandy.”

Adaar got up, found the bottle, poured her a glass and handed it to her. Cassandra took a gulp and sat staring at the glass. Adaar sat down again, carefully keeping her distance, and waited.

“I am not good at friendships,” said Cassandra. “I am not used to having friends who are not Seekers. We are—perhaps too insular. We understand each other too well, We do not have to explain things. I am not good at explaining.” She stopped.

Adaar blinked, entirely baffled. “I am not sure what you are trying to explain,” she said finally.

Cassandra made a frustrated sound. “I am not good at friendships,” she said again, then hesitated.

Adaar resisted a sudden urge to clout her on the head, and waited.

“I have not had many friends,” said Cassandra. Her voice sounded strained and her fingers were moving nervously on her knees. “I consider you to be a friend. You have said that you wish to be friends.”

“Yes,” said Adaar.

“I greatly value your friendship. But you confuse me. You are my friend, but you also wanted more than friendship. You—with you the difference is not clear. I do not know how to separate these things.”

Adaar took a breath, considering. She would have thought it quite straightforward, and did not understand Cassandra’s confusion. “Friends care for each other,” she said carefully. “But that’s not passion, though lovers may also be friends. I care for you as a friend. I—am also attracted to you. But I don’t expect you to feel the same way. I understand that it’s impossible.”

Cassandra did not seem calmed by this. She was still staring at Adaar. Finally she took another gulp of her brandy. “I am no expert at passion, any more than I am at friendship,” she said wryly. “I have only been with one man—one person—in my life. A mage, with whom I adventured when I was still very young. He died at the Conclave.” Her eyes were distant.

“I’m sorry,” said Adaar.

“It had been over for many years,” said Cassandra, “but we remained friends, and I miss him.”

“I’m surprised you’ve only had one lover,” said Adaar, to fill the silence that followed.

“Why?” Cassandra looked honestly startled.

“You’re intelligent, honest, dedicated, kind and loyal... all these things make you very attractive.”

“I am also blunt and difficult.”

Adaar laughed. “And you are sometimes extremely irritating. That makes you _challenging_ , perhaps, but doesn’t erase the things that make you attractive. And you are beautiful, and a woman of great passion. I can’t imagine that you have not been courted.”

“Of course. But most people who court me are only playing the Game,” said Cassandra dismissively. “They play at romance like cruel children. There is no honesty or caring in it for them.”

Was that what Cassandra believed of her overtures? Well, there was no reason the Seeker should think Adaar wanted more from her than a tumble. Adaar had been telling herself it was the only thing she wanted, after all. And it was what Cassandra would have expected, after hearing Adaar speak of relationships in the mercenary companies.

But in the mercenary companies, for all the casualness, there had always been honesty and caring, even if it was only the caring of friendship and camaraderie. Surely Cassandra understood that Adaar cared for her.

But she said only, “Not everyone plays the Game.”

“No. But I expect a great deal of a lover. Most do not want to make the effort. Most of those who have tried... have fallen short.”

 _As I did?_ Adaar felt tension knotting through her muscles. Her hands ached. Why was Cassandra even talking to her about these things, knowing of her interest? She was not normally cruel. “It almost sounds like you don’t want to be in a relationship,” said Adaar carefully.

“I would rather have no relationship at all than one that is less than what I want,” said Cassandra angrily, standing. “I want a relationship that is real. I want the ideal. I want—” And then she stopped. Adaar could see a muscle in her jaw jumping. “It is easier,” she said finally, as if the words were dragged from her.

And Adaar thought that the last three words got closer to the truth of the matter. It is easier. It is easier not to be in a relationship. It is easier not to be close. It is easier not to love.

“But you are a romantic,” she said in some bewilderment.

“I am a coward,” said Cassandra violently.

After a moment, Adaar said quietly, “If you were truly a coward you wouldn’t be talking to me. But I think you’re afraid. What are you afraid of?”

For a moment she thought she had gone too far. But the Seeker had only begun to pace. Adaar waited. Eventually she stopped, and said harshly, “Mistaking what others want. Mistaking what I want. Getting what I want. Losing what I want.” And then, furiously, “Wanting.”

There was a moment’s silence. “What do you want, Cassandra?” said Adaar cautiously.

“I want romance,” said the Seeker immediately. “I want flowers, and poetry. I want someone who will court me in all the ways a woman should be courted. I want the ideal, I want the dream. But... I also want... to hold, and be held. I want to be touched. I want to touch. I want to feel—” Her voice had grown ragged. She had begun to pace again, her fists clenched. She looked as if she would strike out at any moment. She looked terrifyingly angry. “I do not want to want these things. I do not want to _need_ —” She wheeled round and stopped abruptly, her back to Adaar, breathing hard.

The Inquisitor got to her feet and moved around to face her. Her body felt heavy and slow, and her heart felt like a panicked bird fluttering against a cage of brittle bone. She felt as if she was about to spring into space and darkness, not knowing if wings would spread to hold her weight. Cassandra’s head was down, her shoulders hunched. Adaar could not see her eyes, but the tips of her ears were flushed red. “Cassandra.” She waited until the Seeker’s eyes finally, reluctantly, came up to meet hers. “Who do you want to touch?”

Cassandra made a sound halfway between rage and pain and reached out, her hands clamping on Adaar’s biceps so hard it hurt, and then seemed unable to move.

The Seeker’s arms were a bridge and a barrier. Adaar leaned against their grip, and felt Cassandra resist, but she pushed harder, and felt the resistance fall away, though the hands still gripped her arms, and stepped forward to stand close. They were scant inches apart. Cassandra was staring into her face with a hungry, hunted expression. “Then touch me.”

She was not sure what would happen. She thought the chances were roughly equal; fear would win, Cassandra would push her away, and that would be that. Or—

Cassandra yanked her forward so that their bodies came together with almost bruising force, and one hand came up to pull her head down within reach, and then her mouth found Adaar’s. It was a hard kiss, rough and demanding, and the hands on her were not gentle. It was a shout of fear. It was raw and desperate and angry and lost.

Adaar felt her blood surge like a bird taking flight, and reflexively met Cassandra’s challenge with her own, raising a blade of strength and desire and months of frustration to clash against the Seeker’s. She reached out and wrapped her arms around Cassandra and lifted her off her feet and walked backwards until the bed caught the back of her legs, and then she fell back, pulling Cassandra with her, twisting as she did so that she lay fully on the bed, the other woman on top of her. The jolt of falling broke their kiss, throwing them out of alignment, and she bodily hauled the Seeker up to find her lips again, and then stretched one long arm down and spread her fingers over curving leather and pulled Cassandra’s hips hard against her own, feeling them rock reflexively in response.

Cassandra gave an angry growl against her mouth and pressed the thigh between Adaar’s legs hard against her. One hand braced against the Vashoth’s shoulder, pushing her down. The other began to tug at Adaar’s shirt, pulling it free of her breeches until she could slide her hand under it. Her breath was harsh. Her hand was hot and hard with callouses against the skin of Adaar’s stomach. It slid up, roughly pushing aside the breast band, and fingers stretched round Adaar’s breast, the centre of her palm surprisingly soft against the stiff bud, fingers spread wide, palm circling, pressing, claiming. Adaar gasped and arched her back against Cassandra’s weight.

The weight shifted, the hand moved. It found the laces of Adaar’s breeches and roughly tugged them free. Adaar put her hands on Cassandra’s shoulders, gripping, letting her fingers slide just under the edges of the leather jerkin, feeling the hard muscles bunch and move under linen shirt, feeling the shifting of the Seeker’s weight, feeling the hand slide across the fluttering muscles of her belly.

And then the hand stopped moving, though tension still trembled through it, and Cassandra broke the kiss. Adaar looked up and saw hesitation in the Seeker’s eyes, and fear and wanting and confusion and something else, behind the angry scowl and the raw desire.

Adaar felt a moment of absolute terror, and put up one shaking hand to touch Cassandra’s cheek. “Please,” she whispered. She had no blade to challenge Cassandra with now; she was entirely disarmed. She did not want to challenge. She could not bear to lose this battle. If this blow fell she had nothing to counter with. She only asked.

And Cassandra, after a tense moment, closed her eyes and sank down onto her again, pressing her mouth to Adaar’s neck; she could feel the Seeker’s teeth against her throat. And then the Seeker began to move her hand again, more gently now. Adaar hissed as fingers parted coarse hair, slid between wet folds, and her hips surged helplessly in response. She could not have stopped the small sounds she made as Cassandra’s fingers touched her if she had wanted to. She did not try to stop the sounds; she gave them freely, a gift, tilting her hips, offering, asking. And then the fingers slipped further, pressing, sliding, and she gasped and spread her legs wider, lifting them, _please_ , _yes, please_ , and then Cassandra was inside her, one finger and then two, thrusting. She felt stretched on a rack of want and need; she wanted to bite, to sink her teeth into something and hold on till bone gave way. She wanted to dig her fingers into muscle and sinew and pull truth from it. She clung to Cassandra and took great gasping breaths, hot and cold; surely there was no air in the room, and she would suffocate from the lack.

Cassandra was rocking against her thigh, a rhythm that matched the movement of her fingers, her own breath hard and uneven; Adaar could feel the tension in her like an over-stretched cord. And then Cassandra’s fingers moved a little differently, and it was too much; every muscle in her body went rigid, and she moaned, and Cassandra was muttering under her breath in a hoarse, strained voice, she couldn’t make out a word of it, and then it was like being hit by a charging bronto, no, a dragon, all fire and light, and she shuddered against Cassandra’s hand, pulsing, crying out, and again, hearing breath sobbing in Cassandra’s throat, and she tightened her grip on the Seeker, hips lifting, rigid, and the hard body pressed against hers stopped moving and the harsh breathing stopped and Cassandra arched against her, making a sound deep in her throat. And then every muscle in her body gave way at once, and she fell back.

Neither of them moved for quite some time. Cassanda’s full weight lay over her; after a time she could feel the Seeker’s breathing gradually begin to settle. She had not pulled her hand away; it felt intensely intimate and strangely comforting. She felt if it was the only thing holding her to reality, to safety, in a world gone frighteningly unfamiliar and overwhelming. She wanted to wrap her arms round Cassandra and hold her forever, wanted to kiss her mouth and every other part of her. She wanted to say, _Stay_. She wanted to run. It was terrifying. Adaar felt hot prickling behind her eyelids and forced herself to breath slowly and regularly until she had herself under control.

If she could ever be under control again. This... had undone her utterly.

And then Cassandra pulled her hand from under Adaar’s clothing and sat up without looking at her. “I am sorry,” she said harshly.

It took a moment for Adaar’s mind to process what she had said. “What?”

“I should not have—” Cassandra hesitated. “I should not have done that.”

Adaar stared at her, pulling herself together. “I wanted you to do it. And I am looking forward to doing more.”

“No,” said Cassandra, and finally looked at her. “It should not have happened.”

“You wanted it too,” said Adaar. It felt like there were sharp-edged knives in her throat, to catch her voice and flay it from her body.

“This is not what I want,” said Cassandra.

The flames in the fireplace hesitated, frozen in place. When they began to flicker again, Adaar said the only thing she was still capable of saying. “Go.”

“Adaar,” said Cassandra, “It is not that—”

“Don’t explain,” said Adaar. Her voice was flat and entirely unexpressive. “You don’t want this. That’s all. Go.” She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes.

There was silence for a moment, and then weight shifted off the bed and she heard boots cross the room and make their way down the stairs and a door open and shut. She lay there for a little longer and then got up and fastened her breeches and picked up a chair. It was a beautifully crafted piece that Josephine had found and had specially reinforced for her use. It took her less than two minutes, carefully and methodically, to destroy it utterly, with her bare hands.

By the time there was nothing left but splinters her hands were bleeding. She did not care. She tossed the fragments in the fire. She was not sure what she would say to Josephine about the chair. She did not care. She kicked off her boots and lay down on the bed. She did not bother to undress, or to bind her bleeding hands. None of it mattered.

Tomorrow she would ride out. There was bound to be something that needed doing: she would do it. There would be things to kill. She would kill them. She was good at killing things, if she was good at anything.

*          *          *

Cassandra stormed back to her loft, frantic with a roiling mix of fury and distress. It was not Adaar that she was angry with, but herself. She should _never_ have allowed this to happen. She had known that Adaar was physically attracted to her, that Adaar wanted her, and would take the opportunity if it was offered. She should have stayed away. Yet even knowing this she had gone to Adaar. She had tried to talk to her, tried to find a way to understand her own reactions to the Inquisitor. And then she had allowed her desire, her damned _needs_ , to overwhelm her common sense.

It didn’t matter that Tal-Vashoth customs around sexual pleasure were different. It didn’t matter that Adaar had a casual attitude toward such things. It might not matter to Adaar, but it mattered to _her_. It was not casual to her, it could never be casual. It was wrong to act as if it was otherwise. And so on the heels of the physical release came self-loathing, and pain.

And then she had told Adaar that it was not what she wanted, right after— She could not have been more insulting if she had tried. Small wonder that the Inquisitor had told her to go before she could explain herself.

She sat at her table in the loft and put her head in her hands. It was not that the experience had been dreadful. Quite the contrary. It had been intensely pleasurable. The feeling of Adaar’s skin under her hands, of her arousal—

Adaar’s scent was still on her fingers. Her mouth went suddenly dry, and she swallowed hard.

She wanted to touch Adaar again. She wanted Adaar’s hands on her. And her mouth. She _wanted_.

No. She wanted more than that, much more. She wanted to be loved, not just lusted after. She wanted to be courted and cherished. And that was not what Adaar could offer; it was not part of her vocabulary. It was not fair to Adaar to ask for more than she was able to give. It was not fair to herself to take the little that was offered when the Inquisitor could not give her what she truly wanted. She should never have allowed it to happen.

She had been a fool.

*          *          *

There was something pointed in the bed with her, prodding her uncomfortably. She dug under the quilt and found a piece of glass. No, some kind of crystal cut into a faceted teardrop shape, with a metal setting. She recognized it then; it was one of the small pendants that hung from Cassandra’s sleeves.

She almost hurled it through the open balcony doors. But instead her fist closed over it, and stayed closed over it as she lay unmoving and awake through the long night.


	5. Aftermath

There was a need to go to the Emerald Groves, to meet with Fairbanks. Adaar went, with Bull and Dorian and Vivienne. She and Vivienne rarely had much to say to each other, and when Bull and Dorian were on the same expedition they tended to focus on each other. So she thought they would not particularly notice that she had less to say than usual.

She underestimated Dorian’s perceptiveness. He might not have noticed that she was saying less, but he still noticed something. Or Bull had; he had been Ben-Hassrath, after all, and trained to notice things. It didn’t matter which of them noticed: It was Dorian that approached her. “All right,” he said, moving up to walk beside her while behind them Vivienne instructed Bull on his fashion choices. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said.

He eyed her sidelong. “If nothing is wrong, why have you turned into a somewhat flinty version of a stone wall? No, that doesn’t really describe it. I’ve seen walls that are more communicative than you are at the moment.”

“I’m in a bad mood,” she said. “I don’t want to talk.”

“You’ve been in a bad mood for over a week now,” he said. “My feelings are hurt; how can anyone not be cheered by my presence?” She said nothing. “All right,” he said quietly, then. “You know where I am if you ever _do_ want to talk.” And he dropped back to argue with Vivienne about the particular shade of purple velvet that Bull should be dressed in.

She did not want to talk. She would never want to talk, not about this. There were still giants in the Emerald Graves—there seemed an endless supply—and they had moved into an area that seemed infested with them. That was good. People were less likely to want to talk to her, to want her to talk, when they were fighting giants.

*          *          *

“You need to get laid,” said Sera, calm conviction in her tone.

“I—what?” said Cassandra.

“You’re all tense and pissy with everyone. You need some serious shagging, loosen up things, get all soft and floopy. Move your bits on someone else’s bits, right? Takes the edge off.”

“Sera,” said Cassandra, in a confusion of embarrassment, anger, and horrified amusement, “sleeping with someone is not the solution to everything.”

“Maybe not,” said the rogue, “but it fixes a lot of things.” She gave Cassandra a manic grin and a nudge. “You should try it sometime.”

Cassandra shut her eyes. “Do you not have pockets to pick?”

But of course she _was_ tense and pissy, as Sera so indelicately called it, though not for quite the reasons Sera assumed. It was not as if she had not been—no, she would not think of that. The Inquisitor had left on expedition the day after—after that night, and was not expected to return for several weeks. Cassandra had been on edge ever since, still consumed with distress over insulting the Inquisitor and her own foolishness and—and something else that she was not quite sure of. She could not understand why; this separation was a good thing. They did not have to face each other immediately, and surely by the time they met again they would have recovered their equanimity and could do so with less embarrassment. She should be feeling more relaxed because the Inquisitor was gone.

But that was not happening. Part of it, doubtless, was that to her fury she still felt desire when she thought of Adaar. It was foolish, it was senseless, it drove her to distraction; but she still _wanted_.

If this _incident_ had not happened, she would probably have been travelling with Adaar on this mission; it was one that would benefit from her skills. Despite all that had happened, she was angry that she was not on the expedition. She wished she was on it. Damn it. Damn her foolish impulsive tendency to act before she thought.

She _missed_ the Inquisitor.

*          *          *

Adaar felt as if she were being humoured, treated like a broody bronto that might go off in a violent attack at any moment, all horns and teeth and great stomping feet, and it infuriated her. Even Vivienne had commented on her sullen silence, and they all seemed to be tiptoeing around her. It was ridiculous. She must do something about it.

She pulled herself together and began to engage in conversation more normally, behind a mask of relaxed pleasantry and amiability. It was not too difficult; she had done it for years, and to hide herself was automatic. She had let her guard down a great deal over the past few days, she thought, that her companions had noted her state of mind. It must not happen again. She must ensure that she had an iron grip on herself by the time they returned to Skyhold. She would keep her distress to the privacy of her own quarters, where no one else could see. There at least she would not need to pretend to sleep through all the long hours of the night.

*          *          *

Cassandra, meeting her in company for the first time after their return, thought that the Inquisitor seemed perfectly normal. She did not seem embarrassed or upset in any way. Evidently her anger at the insult had faded.

It was good that the Inquisitor had recovered from any distress she had felt over the incident. It would have been better if the Seeker could say the same.

Cassandra felt awkward in the meeting, but then she often felt awkward, and she did not think that anyone particularly noticed it. And it was easier to interact with Adaar as she usually did after that first hurdle had been gotten past.

After that Adaar took Cassandra on expeditions as she always had; things had returned to normal. She thought the Inquisitor might be less talkative than she had been, but if so it was with everyone, not just herself.

It was all very normal, except that their friendship was not what it was. Cassandra had not realized how different Adaar’s relationship with her had become until the Inquisitor began treating her exactly like everyone else. Even her original refusal of Adaar’s advances had not really changed that.

The _incident_ had.

She wanted that friendship back. She missed it. She missed Adaar as she had been. She missed Adaar, and it had been her own foolishness that had destroyed their friendship. She could not stop herself from thinking about it, worrying at the problem.

She found herself watching the Inquisitor when they were together. Sitting at her table late one night some weeks later, pretending that she was reading, she thought yet again about Adaar instead. Thought about her hands, the width of her shoulders, her long ground-eating stride, the way she moved, the way she was still. _I still want her_. Thought about her eyes, her smile, when they had turned on Cassandra in ways they no longer did. _If I thought that she could give me what I want, she thought suddenly, if I thought that she could care for me—I would not hesitate_.

She shut her eyes and groaned under her breath. She had known that she desired Adaar. She had known that Adaar could not give her what she wanted. But she had not known until that moment quite how _much_ she had wanted.

*          *          *

“Let him rot,” said Adaar in an uncaring voice. “Get back to Skyhold.” Cullen nodded and walked away; she wheeled round and climbed the stairs.

The others were waiting back in the square, their faces tense and uncertain. “Pack up,” she said. “We’re going home.”

“What about Blackwall?” said Dorian, who was likely saying what everyone else was thinking.

“The Orlesians can do what they like with him,” said Adaar. “He’s their problem now.”

“But—”

“His men trusted him,” said Adaar expressionlessly. “And so when he told them they were protecting Celene, they believed him, and followed his orders to kill everyone. They killed women and children. And when it came out that he had been working for Celene’s enemy, he deserted them and let them take the fall for his crime. He betrayed his men, and he betrayed Orlais. Orlais will try him. We are going back to Skyhold.”

“You can’t!” said Sera. “Andraste’s tits, he’s been working for you for months! Look what he’s done for the frigging Inquisition! You can’t just leave him to hang!”

Adaar did not even look at her as she strode toward the apartments they had rented for their time in Val Royeaux. She only wanted to be out of this filthy city, and as soon as possible.

Sera did not exactly give up, continuing to berate and harry the Inquisitor. Eventually Adaar said, “And what would the Jennies do if one of their own betrayed the others?” and she subsided into angry muttering.

Adaar had complicated feelings toward Blackwall—no, Rainier—but fury was currently the strongest part. She had had a mild liking for him, and great respect for him as a warrior. And it was true that he had done a great deal for the Inquisition, putting his body on the line without hesitation.

But he had betrayed his own men. And he had lied to the Inquisition.

Since then Rainier had found his conscience. Or perhaps it was that his conscience was never truly lost, and that was what had ruined him. Maybe sometimes a lost conscience should stay lost, she thought cynically.

“You made the right choice,” Cassandra quietly said to her, during a stop to water their horses. “Some things cannot be forgiven; he deserves his punishment.”

It was true. Some things could not be forgiven; they must be carefully bound up and put away somewhere where their sharp edges could do no harm.

Adaar wrenched her mind back to Blackwall. Punishment. She was not certain that she would call it punishment so much as atonement. Though he had been trying to atone before the truth came out, before any suggestion of punishment. He had been trying to atone since he took Blackwall’s name. He had repented of his actions. He was a different man than the one that had betrayed his own men.

It didn’t matter. She sent her greathorse into a canter and tried to leave her thoughts behind.

But they were still there on the next day, scratching at her with persistent little claws. She was still furious. She _wanted_ to leave him to rot. But he had tried to atone, to turn himself into a different man; was redemption possible? She didn’t know.

It was certainly impossible if he was dead.

Had she made the right decision? She must decide as Inquisitor now, not just as Adaar. Now she was responsible for an army, not a squad. Now she was responsible for civilians. Now her choices had implications beyond what she could see.

_Now it is I that must choose sides. It is I that must choose the direction for the Inquisition. And I must choose what we will stand for, the values we will hold._

_As Adaar, I know what I would choose. It is very simple and clear. But as Inquisitor... it is more difficult. As Adaar I only advised, I was not the one who judged. Now I must judge. And I do not know if Adaar’s choices are right for the Inquisition._

_Is it right to prevent someone from atoning for what they have done? From attempting to find redemption? What is truly unforgivable?_

_As Adaar, it is simple. I know what I would do. But I do not know if Adaar’s choice is right._

“Send a bird to Leliana,” she said on the fifth day, handing a sealed message to a scout.

*          *          *

Cassandra found out what Adaar had done from Leliana when they returned to Skyhold, and outraged, went to confront her. “You have arranged to bring Blackwall back?” she said. “I cannot believe you have done this!”

The Inquisitor shrugged. “He will serve the Inquisition against Corypheus, and if he survives that he will be given to the Wardens.”

“And what of his punishment?”

“It is still a death sentence, Cassandra,” said Adaar patiently. “He will die in the joining, or he will be killed in battle, or if he survives all that he will die some years later from the Calling. But he will also have a chance to atone through his actions, and to do some good.”

“And what of Orlais?”

“Celene owes us a great deal,” said Adaar. “There was no hesitation when we suggested this resolution of the problem.”

“I don’t like it,” said the Seeker, scowling.

“I didn’t think you would,” said Adaar, with a humourless smile.

*          *          *

They had been out on expedition for a number of weeks, and were tired. Adaar’s party had been dealing with problems in the Exalted Plains, and had stopped overnight in Lydes on the way home. Word had come from a scout that there was an urgent situation that Adaar must deal with, and they needed to get back to Skyhold quickly; staying at an inn, when they could do so, would in some ways be more efficient than setting and breaking camp.

They had not expected to meet the Valo-Kas, who were headed out from a job in Emprise. It was sheer luck that they even spotted each other.

“Adaar!” came the roar across the market, and the Inquisitor turned. She would know that voice anywhere. The crowd parted, physically cast aside, and then Shokrakar was pounding her on the back.

“Good to see you, you little shit,” her old commander was saying. “We need to catch up. Where are you staying?”

“We haven’t chosen an inn yet,” said Adaar.

“Then stay at ours, there’s plenty of room left,” said Shok.

“We’ll do that,” said the Inquisitor. “What is it?” She wasn’t surprised to hear the inn was had room; a large company of Tal-Vashoth mercenaries at an inn tended to inhibit other patrons.

“The Three-Legged Mabari,” said Shok promptly. “We’re heading there now.”

“We’ll follow you,” said Adaar.

She had not consulted with the others; Varric looked intrigued, Solas resigned, and Cassandra—Cassandra was frowning irritably. Adaar couldn’t see why, and wrote it off as just another example of the Seeker’s inability to be gracious when faced with the unexpected.

They followed Shok and her comrades to the inn, and as expected, there was plenty of room. The men took one room, the Inquisitor and Cassandra took another. Adaar carried their gear upstairs while Cassandra saw to the horses.

The Valo-Kas had settled in to a big table in the centre of the common room by the time Adaar found her way downstairs again, and Shokrakar waved her over. Shok stood as she approached and embraced her again, clapping her on the back, and drew her down beside her on the bench. “So, tell me about this Inquisitor shit,” she said, leaving one arm around Adaar’s shoulders and pulling a tankard from the mass on the table for her, then picking up her own.

“It’s a long story,” said Adaar.

“Well, we’ve got all night,” said Shokrakar expansively, taking her arm from around Adaar and taking the Inquisitor’s left hand in hers and turning it palm up. “And what the hell is this?”

 _All right?_ said the finger code against her palm. _Forced?_

 _No_ , Adaar signed back. _Good. Complicated._

Shokrakar moved her hand and put it on Adaar’s knee under the table, and Adaar let her hand rest over Shok’s. They fell into the pattern that they knew so well, talking on one level with their voices while their fingers said other things. You couldn’t say anything complicated with the finger code, developed for working when silence was absolutely necessary, but it allowed for the amplification of things that were said aloud, contextualized them. “Did a job for an Orlesian,” Shokrakar might say, “nasty work, nearly lost Hissra,” and make the signs for bad and cheat and dead, and Adaar would know that it had been very bad and that the Orlesian had been a snake and that Shok had had him killed.

The others circulated round the table, clapping Adaar on the back, hugging her, buying her drinks, resting their hands on her while they gossiped. She let her own hands touch in return, slide across leather and metal and skin and horns and hair. The Valo-Kas touched each other a great deal even when they were not using the code. She was Valo-Kas, whether she was the Inquisitor or not, and their hands reaffirmed it.

She had not realized how much she had missed this, how much she had needed it. She drank and smiled and drank some more. Somewhere along the line there was food. She ate, and drank some more.

Solas had retired for the evening; he rarely spent time in taverns. Varric and Cassandra sat at a table in a corner. Adaar could not see Varric’s face, but Cassandra had a face like a thundercloud. Doubtless she was not happy at being left alone in the dwarf’s company. Well, if she disliked it that much she could damn well go to the room they shared and be quit of him.

By now a few of the Valo-Kas had acquired companions from the hangers-on and whores at the tavern and begun to wander off to their rooms. A little later Varric came over and had to be introduced to those who remained, and it was discovered that more than one of the mercenaries was a fan of Varric Tethras the writer, and the next thing she knew he was squashed between Taarlok and Kaariss. She had a suspicion, given the expression on the dwarf’s face, that Kaariss had begun declaiming poetry.

Shokrakar wrapped an arm around her and leaned over and whispered in her ear. “You got something going with that little sharp human?”

Adaar’s self-control prevented her from starting. “No.”

Shokrakar grinned. “If you say so. But she watches you, and you watch her. Maybe that’s why you’re so tense, eh?”

“You are so full of shit,” said Adaar, rolling her eyes. _Comrades_ , she signed against Shok’s hand. _Not-friends_. It was not quite the same sign as for enemy, but the difference was subtle.

“If you say so,” said Shokrakar, tossing her drink back and lifting another. Adaar glanced toward where Cassandra had been sitting and found her gone.

It was very late when she stumbled up to the room they shared, and she was very drunk. She fell into her bed without undressing, though she did manage to get her boots off first.

She woke in the early light of morning, with a head full of pounding needles and a mouth full of sand. The other bed was empty. Groaning to herself, she found her boots and stepped out of the room.

Despite the early hour, Cassandra was in the common room, eating breakfast. Shit. She didn’t even look at Adaar, but the Vashoth was quite certain she hadn’t missed a thing.

She made her way into the yard, found the latrine, and then ducked her head under the pump. That cleared her mind slightly. By the time she got back inside Cassandra had disappeared. Adaar ordered tea and bread; she had no appetite but she thought it might help to settle her stomach.

Cassandra reappeared a little while later, with their saddle packs. “Solas and Varric are packing up, and I have your things,” she said. “We can go as soon as you finish.”

“I just got up,” protested Adaar. “I want to talk to Shokrakar and the others before I go.”

Cassandra’s scowl deepened. “You had plenty of time to talk last night,” she said. “We need to get back quickly.”

Adaar scowled back. It was true that they needed to hurry, but Cassandra was being ridiculous.

“We’ll ride out in fifteen minutes,” said Cassandra in a voice that brooked no argument.

“We’ll ride out when I finish here,” said Adaar, with no expression at all in her voice.

In the end, it was probably twenty minutes before they rode out. Adaar finished her breakfast and wrote a note.

_Shok, we had to leave early, sorry I couldn’t wait for you to get your lazy ass out of bed. Talk to Josephine about more work. When things aren’t so crazy I want to see you at Skyhold, you hear?_

What else could she say? She gave the innkeeper a coin and asked him to pass the note on.

The trip back to Skyhold was quieter than usual. Adaar’s hangover wore off by late afternoon, but her bad mood did not. She could see the logic of an early start, but she did not care about logic. She missed the Valo-Kas. She had been able to put that aside, but now... well, she would put it aside again. Eventually.

Varric had also had too much to drink, and was sullen with it for the day. And after that, looking between his companions, he made a few attempts at banter and then gave up.

Cassandra, always abstemious, had not had too much to drink; but she might as well have a hangover, given her glowering looks. She _simmered_ visibly every day of the ride back.

And Solas, in the absence of other chatter, seemed for once to have nothing to say, perhaps because they had ridden this route so many times and he had said it all before.

*          *          *

Adaar spent the week after their return with her advisors, dealing with the backup of issues and decisions that had built up during her absence, all the things that could not be decided without her. It was always exhausting, but this time she felt unusually drained by it. The meeting with the Valo-Kas had reminded her of what she had lost. She had commanded a squad, yes, but there had always been someone superior to her. She had been closer to the lower ranks, had been part of something in ways that she no longer could be. Oh, there was camaraderie amongst the members of the Inquisition, and she could pretend when she was out on expedition, but it was not the same. This was a much, much larger organization, and she had been elevated to the top of it and given the ability to make final decisions. She was the boss, and she didn’t much like it.

Perhaps that was why Sera found it so easy to convince her to prank others in the Inquisition. The rogue was not stupid, and although many wrote her off that way Adaar was not one of them. Sera had an excellent grasp of the things that motivated people, and a clear understanding strategically of how to leverage them. They might seem like pranks, but they were on the whole harmless and served a purpose, and it was one that Adaar agreed with. And after a week of duty and too many things on her mind, a little light-hearted amusement seemed very attractive.

It was unfortunate that Cassandra heard about the bucket hung over Josephine’s door; presumably the Ambassador, soaking wet and as irate as a wyvern with a threatened nest, had complained to her. Adaar was talking with Sera in her rooms when the Seeker cornered them there.

“You!” she said furiously. “You are responsible for the booby-trapped door!”

“Who, me?” said Sera innocently. “What happened, then?”

“Lady Ambassador Montilyet was bringing the Orlesian Ambassador into her office,” said Cassandra between her teeth, “when a bucket of water emptied itself over them. Both of them. We are lucky that it did not cause a major diplomatic incident. This has gone too far.”

“The Orlesian Ambassador is a pompous old man, and Celene needs the Inquisition’s support,” said Adaar. “He won’t cause trouble.”

Cassandra rounded on her. “You were involved in this, weren’t you?” Adaar simply looked at her. “This goes too far, Inquisitor. I do not expect much of Sera, but you should know better.”

“Hey!” protested the rogue. But the Seeker was not to be stopped.

“We _need_ the support of other nations, other peoples, if we are to succeed. We will not have their support if they do not respect us. And they will certainly not respect us if our Inquisitor goes around behaving as you have done.”

“You seem to have some very firm opinions as to my behaviour,” said Adaar tonelessly.

“Your behaviour is appalling and inappropriate!” shouted Cassandra. “You have been pranking your advisors as if you were a child, showing no respect for their station or efforts on behalf of the Inquisition. You carouse with a pack of Tal-Vashoth mercenaries in a tavern until you are so drunk you can barely stand. You are irresponsible! You embarrass the Inquisition!”

Adaar had gone very still. “What exactly do you object to, Seeker?” she said. “Is it that I was drunk? Or that the Valo-Kas are mercenaries? Or perhaps it is that they are Tal-Vashoth?”

“As leader of the Inquisition you must be a figure of respect,” Cassandra said furiously. “Not a laughingstock, someone with dubious connections. Not someone who only wants to drink and whore in a tavern. You must show a standard of behaviour beyond what—” She stopped abruptly.

“Beyond what is normal for a hornhead?” said Adaar, raising an eyebrow.

“That is not—”

“Oh, I think it was.” She grinned mirthlessly, pushed past Cassandra and out Sera’s door. The Seeker stood staring after her.

“Well, you’ve fucked that right up, haven’t you?” said the rogue. Cassandra rounded on her.

“You! You started this, with your foolish pranks! You—”

“Oh, balls,” said Sera. She did not seem particularly upset by Cassandra’s tirade. “Get a grip, Seeker. “Look, just because you—” And then she stopped, looking past Cassandra’s shoulder.

The Seeker half turned. Adaar had come back, silently and unexpectedly, and was holding out her hand toward Cassandra. There was something in her fingers. “I believe this is yours,” she said with exquisite politeness.

The Seeker reflexively put out her hand, and the Inquisitor dropped something small into it, turned, and walked away again. Cassandra looked down. It was the crystal pendant from her sleeve. “Where did you find—” she started to say, but the Inquisitor was gone.

Sera was looking at the pendant with interest. “I dunno where she _found_ it,” she said, “but she’s been carrying it around for weeks. She must be really pissed at you to give it back.”

Cassandra frowned at her. “You must be mistaken.”

“Nah,” said the rogue. “She’s had it in a leather pouch hung round her neck. I saw it when we were in Crestwood last time, though she put it away right smartly when she saw me looking. Got a thing for you, has she?”

“That—is impossible.” Crestwood had been at least six weeks ago. Cassandra had seen the pouch, and thought nothing of it. It had appeared—yes, it had appeared sometime after that evening that she tried so hard not to think about. But this suggestion was ridiculous.

“Have it your way.” Sera shrugged. “But I know what _I’d_ think if someone was carrying around something of mine like that.” And she turned away, whistling, to root among her jackdaw belongings.

Cassandra stood where she was for a moment, and then finally made her way out of the tavern and up to her loft and sat down. She put the pendant on her table and stared at it.

The pendant must have come off her sleeve when—she would not think of that. But if that was when it had been lost, it did not make sense that Adaar had kept it. She would have expected her to either return it or, more likely given how they had parted, thrown it out. To keep such a thing, to hang it in a pouch around one’s neck—that was a ridiculously romantic thing to do.

But Adaar was not romantic. Adaar did not “have a thing” for her. Adaar simply wanted to bed her. It must have been kept as a trophy.

But... she did not really think that Adaar would do that.

And the pouch had not been there when she gave the pendant back just now. But she was sure she remembered seeing it earlier that day. Which meant that—

 _Oh Maker_ , thought Cassandra, and put her head in her hands.

*          *          *

She was training at the dummies when she saw Adaar crossing the yard. The Inquisitor was not looking in her direction—likely on purpose—though she appeared to be heading for the quartermaster’s, which meant she must pass closely by. The Seeker took a deep breath, sheathed her sword, and stepped out to intercept her. As she was half in the Inquisitor’s way, Adaar could not avoid looking at her then.

“I would like to speak with you,” said Cassandra.

“Are you going to shout at me again?” She did not look angry or upset. She looked... like nothing.

“No,” said Cassandra. “I am going to apologize.”

Adaar looked at her for a moment. “All right.”

Cassandra stepped back toward the dummies. Adaar followed, and then simply waited.

“First,” said Cassandra, “I want to apologize for the things I said to you when you were with Sera, about pranking Josephine. I treated you as if you were a child, with no respect. I do respect you. I was... very angry about something else, and took it out on you. It was not fair and it was undeserved. I am sorry.” Adaar nodded slowly, expressionless.

“I accused you of—of behaving disreputably. But I know that such accusations are not fair. You are not like other mercenaries. You have a strong sense of duty, of honor. You wo—”

The Inquisitor, who had been standing beside one of the dummies, drew back her fist and slammed it into the straw figure. The post shivered but did not break; it had been designed to withstand the blows of a warrior with a sword, and was not likely to fall to flesh and bone. Cassandra stopped mid-word.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Adaar said, her nostrils flaring. Her breathing was harsh, and her voice, though not loud, was strained with tension. For once, there was no mask to disguise her emotions. Her face was fearsome, drawn in slashed planes, her teeth bared. She folded her arms together over her chest, and spoke slowly, clearly, and distinctly. “I am Valo-Kas, Seeker. I am like every other Tal-Vashoth mercenary. It could be any of my old comrades standing here. It is only a trick of fate that it is me. _But there is no difference_. Every disreputable thing that you have accused them of is something I have done, and still do. I drank. I whored. I am still the person that did those things. I have not changed.”

“But—”

“I am _Vashoth_ ,” hissed Adaar. “I will never be respectable. And I will not set aside my people to pretend otherwise.” She turned on her heel and walked away.

Cassandra stood shocked and staring after her. She had never seen Adaar show true anger before. Even when the Inquisitor had lost her temper and thrown her she had only seemed mildly annoyed. She thought of what Leliana had said long ago about how frightening an angry Qunari could be; that was what she had just seen.

And behind the shock came the realization of exactly what she had said to cause that rage. She had not meant—but she had. She had thoughtlessly insulted Adaar’s associates—her friends—and shown appalling bigotry toward them. And toward Adaar.

She had been a fool, again.

And then she saw red smeared on the burlap of the dummy, and understood that it was blood. The Inquisitor had hurt herself when she struck. Given how hard she had hit the thing, it was possible that she had broken her hand.

She told herself that it was concern for a comrade, concern for her leader, that made her follow Adaar. If she was injured, the wound must be looked at, and healed. She asked Varric, in the Great Hall, if he had seen the Inquisitor, and he said that he thought she had gone to her quarters. “I’d leave her alone though, Seeker,” he called after her. “She didn’t look like she was feeling friendly.”

But it did not even occur to her to worry about Adaar’s reaction if the she cornered an angry Inquisitor in her rooms. She was not afraid of Adaar, even if the Vashoth was furious. She was responsible for the Inquisitor’s hurt; she must do something about it.

She sent a servant to fill a bucket with snow from the rocky slopes just outside Skyhold. At times like this she was grateful for the illogical contrast between temperatures inside and outside the walls. She went to the infirmary and acquired bandages and a salve, and then took her supplies up to the Inquisitor’s quarters.

The doors were not locked, thankfully. She made her way up the stairs and entered the Inquisitor’s room. There was no sign of Adaar. She set down the things she carried and went a little further in and yes, Adaar was out on a balcony.

The Inquisitor gave no sign of noticing Cassandra’s presence. Her hands were resting flat on the balustrade. One was bloody and bruised and swelling. Cassandra walked over to stand beside her; Adaar, face impassive, did not acknowledge her presence.

After a moment Cassandra said quietly, “I am a fool. I am sorry. I want to learn to be less of a fool, if I can.”

Adaar said nothing, but her cold gaze shifted to the Seeker, entirely devoid of expression.

“Your hand is hurt,” said Cassandra, reaching out and touching the back of it very lightly. “Is it broken?”

“No,” said Adaar after a moment. A slight shiver had gone through her in reaction to Cassandra’s touch. Her voice was a little hoarse but otherwise normal. “I’ve broken my hand before. This is just cuts and bruises.”

“Do you have a healing potion?”

“It’s not worth using one,” said Adaar. “It will be fine in a few days.”

“Will you at least let me bind it?” said Cassandra. Then when Adaar did not respond, “Please.”

Adaar was silent for a little. “All right.”

*          *          *

Adaar felt drained and empty. It seemed too much trouble to argue against Cassandra’s desire to help her, or even to move, but the Seeker was insistent, and Adaar found herself obeying, following her inside.

Cassandra made Adaar sit, then poured water from the Inquisitor’s jug into her wash bowl. She pulled a chair close, setting the bowl on her knees, and reached out for Adaar’s hand. She dunked it in the water, took a rag, and carefully cleaned the cuts. Then she reached for the bucket, took Adaar’s wrist, and plunged her hand into the snow.

Adaar growled and reflexively tried to pull her hand away, but Cassandra had a grip of iron on her wrist. “ _Fuck_ ,” said Adaar, feeling fully awake for the first time since she had left the practice yard.

“You know perfectly well that this is good for it,” said Cassandra severely.

“That doesn’t mean I have to _like_ it,” said Adaar, but she stopped struggling.

Cassandra did not release her wrist, and they sat in silence. Adaar felt her touch acutely, and could not work out whether it was more distressing or more comforting.

After some time Cassandra lifted the hand out of the melting snow and examined it. The swelling had gone down a little, and it seemed to have stopped bleeding. She found a clean rag and patted it dry, spread salve over the cuts, and then bound it up, remonstrating when Adaar grumbled about the discomfort when she stretched the fingers. Through it all she was extraordinarily gentle in a way that belied her gruffness, her fingers light and cautious. Adaar thought that the gentleness would be the undoing of her; but she called on all her self control and won through.

When she had entirely finished, Cassandra tossed the snow over the railing and picked up the bucket and bandage remnants, nodded to the Inquisitor, and left. The Seeker had said very little to her, far less than Adaar had expected. She stared at her bandaged hand, thoroughly discomposed. She had been prepared to refuse to hear Cassandra’s speech, her apologies, but Cassandra had not offered them, beyond her first words.

*          *          *

Neither of them seemed to understand how to be with each other after that day, Cassandra thought. The Inquisitor had largely retreated into silence, and Cassandra did not know what to say to her. She had realized just how little she understood Adaar, understood the Tal-Vashoth, and that all her assumptions about both were suspect. She had realized the extent to which she held assumptions, and it horrified her. She realized that she had hurt Adaar; she had realized that every time she opened her mouth she was in danger of hurting Adaar more—and she very much did not want to hurt Adaar.

It was not exactly painful—the binding of Adaar’s wounds had done something for both of them—but what was happening between them was not relaxed, and Leliana noticed. Leliana noticed everything, of course; probably she had noticed things going on between them long before either of them were aware of anything. The spymaster asked her to come out on the balcony off the Rookery for a moment, high above the courtyard, trapped her efficiently in a corner, and said, “What is between you and the Inquisitor, Cassandra?” And then, as the Seeker opened her mouth to deny that there was anything, said, “Do not pretend that there is nothing. You are far too transparent when you are unsettled, even if she is not. And it has been going on for too long to be a simple disagreement.”

“There is... something,” said Cassandra grudgingly, after a moment.

“Do you wish to bed her or kill her?” said Leliana.

Cassandra felt her face burn. “Does it matter?”

“One would be better for the Inquisition, certainly,” said the spymaster drily.

“Neither would be good for the Inquisition,” said Cassandra, with a firmness she was not entirely sure she felt.

Leliana laughed. “You wish to bed her, then.” And at Cassandra’s outraged grunt, “Do you deny it?”

She could not deny it. Leliana always knew if she lied. She turned away. “There is an attraction.”

“Can you not even say directly that _you_ are attracted to her?” There was teasing humour in Leliana’s voice.

Cassandra wheeled round, scowling, and the smile disappeared from the spymaster’s face. “All right. I am attracted to her. She is attracted to me, or was. But I do not understand her, and I—” She broke off. “It is not so easy. Every time I open my mouth, I—” She stopped. “I do not wish to hurt her, and I do.”

“If you have gotten past her guard,” said Leliana after a moment, “you will be able to hurt her. And I think she has gotten past _your_ guard, yes?” The Seeker did not answer. “I think that if you can find a way to understand each other you will be good for each other.” Cassandra raised her head in surprise. “But you will have to find your own way to that understanding.”

“That is not so easy to do,” muttered Cassandra. “I am not good at talking about these things.”

Leliana smiled slyly. “Then do not talk. There are other ways to communicate. And to listen.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes and escaped. At least Leliana had not teased her about her firm assertion, early on in their association, that it was impossible for her to be attracted to a woman.

To listen. Perhaps that was the answer to being a fool.

*          *          *

There was, as usual, a great deal to keep both of them busy, much of it mundane enough not to stir things up. There were the usual expeditions to keep the fragile peace that had been set between mages and templars, to root out Venatori, to establish diplomatic relationships. The last were the most irritating to Adaar, who knew they were essential but hated the complex political dance that they required.

She did not know what to do about Cassandra. Her instinct after revealing so much of herself was to avoid her, but to do so would reveal even more. She attempted instead a return again to normalcy, taking Cassandra on as many expeditions as she had in the past, settling a determinedly impassive mask over her own feelings.

The Seeker shadowed her in silence, saying little but always there. She did not try to initiate awkward conversations. She did not have much to say about anything, really. She was not very talkative at the best of times, unless there was good reason for it, but now she said even less, rarely initiating a conversation with anyone. The other companions noticed, of course, but most refrained from remarking on it.

“Cat got your tongue?” said Sera, who was not inclined to forgo remarking on anything. “I know it’s like pulling dragon’s teeth to get you to talk if you’re not pissed about something, but you’re setting a record here.”

“Oh?” said Cassandra. “Then it must be because Varric is not here.” And that was that conversation.

They were on expedition in Crestwood, and had just secured Caer Bronach. Now they were following rumours of a Seeker, hoping to solve the mystery of the Order’s disappearance, when a message raven came for Vivienne, calling her urgently back to Val Royeaux, something about Duke Bastien. The unperturbable mage for once looked tense, and asked permission to leave the party; Adaar gave it. She sent Sera with Vivienne; they did not get along, but it was better not to travel alone, and Cassanda’s concern for the disappearance of the Seekers was the primary reason for what was left of their current excursion. Adaar was not happy that the party had split, leaving her alone with the Seeker, but there really was no logical alternative.

They travelled on, following the route they had planned. Adaar had been nervous as to what Cassandra might say when they were alone, but for the most part the Seeker said nothing. They took turns leading through the hills, set up camp every night, laid snares to augment their dried food, and slept side by side, saying very little. For the first few days Adaar was on edge, waiting for what she was certain must come, but the Seeker said nothing beyond the everyday necessities.

She was not going to say anything, the Inquisitor finally realized, at least not anything about what lay between them. Adaar began to relax. And as she did she found to her surprise that when she was not afraid of what the Seeker might say, travelling alone with Cassandra was quite enjoyable.

In silence, they fitted. There was no other way to describe it, really. The silence was not disturbing; it was only that words were not needed. Walking, Cassandra would touch her arm and point; _danger_. Too dangerous? Shake your head. Avoid for now, but note the location. Manageable? Shift your gaze to show your direction, or hers. Neither of them was particularly adept at stalking, but they became good at approaching enemy encampments from opposite sides; if one was discovered it was unlikely that both would be, and that provided an element of surprise. They were an effective team, and only once was either of them injured badly enough to require a potion. For the most part there were minor cuts, scrapes and bruises that could be treated with salve and bound up for a few days.

At night, which had so often been an awkward time within a larger group, they simply sat by the fire and tended their gear, unspeaking. Adaar would finish sharpening her blade, nudge Cassandra, and put out her hand with the whetstone, and Cassandra would reach out and take it for her own use, and move her oil and rag within Adaar’s reach. Or Cassandra would wordlessly take up a piece of Adaar’s damaged gear and mend it while the Inquisitor cooked their dinner. It began to feel almost as if they were reading each others’ minds, without the complications of words. _Let me_ , said the touch on the arm, or _Look, over there_ , or _Is this right?_ There was even laughter in a nudge, at times. There was no need to speak; they had fallen into a language that was as eloquent as any others they could use.

Adaar had since the night when Cassandra had made love to her—fucked her—avoided touching the Seeker, and had not wanted Cassandra to touch her: she was too raw to bear the contact. But this, happening as naturally as it had... this was uncomplicated. It did not carry the weight of sensuality and pain. It was not exactly like the touch of the Valo-Kas, but it had a similarity that was familiar and comforting.

The Seeker they pursued was a figment of someone’s imagination; that became clear when they came to the village that the story had mentioned. They were following a mirage, a tale that had been blown into something it was not, and after a little consultation they turned back. Skyhold was still three weeks’ travel away, but there would be Inquisition camps on the way, and they would likely not be alone together for much longer.

*          *          *

They did speak sometimes, of course. “You have been worrying about the disappearance of the Seekers for weeks now,” said Adaar one evening as they sat by the fire. “It has been riding you.”

Cassandra had been fretting since they turned around, depressed by their lack of success, and she supposed that it must show, for Adaar to say anything. “Yes,” she said. “I may have left the order, but we are family.”

Adaar nodded slowly. “You told me how young children are when they begin Seeker training,” she said. “It could hardly be otherwise.”

After a moment Cassandra said, “If I may ask... how old were you when you joined the mercenaries?”

There was a considering silence, and then Adaar said, “Thirteen.”

“That is young, to begin fighting,” said Cassandra carefully. She thought of herself at twelve, when she had begun her training, and at thirteen. She would not have been in the least prepared to work as a soldier at that age.

Adaar said nothing for a while, and the Seeker thought she was not going to reply. Perhaps it was better that way; silence had done them more good than talking, after all. But in the end, the Inquisitor said, “I did not have a choice. The Ben-Hassrath killed my parents. I managed to escape being killed through sheer luck, but I had nowhere to go. I lived in the woods for a month, scavenging and stealing. A mercenary band came through before I starved, and they took me on. They didn’t care how old I was, just that I could fight reasonably well. I was already taller than most humans, and my mother had taught me to use weapons; she had been Karasaad before they left the Qun. I could fight as well as any of them could. I stayed with them for three years, on one year contracts. When my third year was up I joined the Valo-Kas.”

“Why did you change companies?” asked Cassandra, curious.

Adaar showed her teeth. “The first company—they weren’t very good at what they did, and so they took any job on offer. And I was one of only two Vashoth; that was why they wanted me. I didn’t like that. The Valo-Kas are mostly Vashoth, and there are jobs they will not take. And I learned a lot more working for Shok.” She looked away.

Cassandra nodded and asked no more questions. Adaar’s answer had given her a great deal to think about. Was understanding the Inquisitor as simple as asking? She did not think so. She did not think that Adaar would have answered the questions if there had been others around, or if they had been asked some months ago.

This time spent alone with Adaar had changed things. Cassandra had been tense, afraid to say anything for fear of doing more harm with her ignorance, her clumsiness. And since the day she had hurt her hand Adaar had been watching the Seeker like a feral cat, shy and circling and wary and stretched tight as a bowstring, but after the first few days of travelling without the others she had slowly begun to relax. They had both begun to relax when it became clear that they did not need to speak to each other.

She did not want to hurt Adaar. The attraction was still there, and at times it was intense; nothing had changed in that. And she still wished for more than she could have.

Or did she?

They had never had the conversation that Cassandra had set out to have, that day in the yard when Adaar had hurt her hand. The return of her pendant had thrown all her assumptions about exactly what Adaar felt, what she wanted, into disarray, and she had meant to confront the Inquisitor about it. But then everything had gone wrong, and she did not ask. And somehow it had been impossible to ask since then.

After they returned to Skyhold things were easier than they had been in some time. They said little to each other, but Adaar’s hand still touched her shoulder, still said _Look!_ And her own arm would nudge Adaar’s. _Do you believe what you are seeing?_ There was no need for the confusion of words.

Cassandra went to the tavern one evening to eat a late cold supper of bread and cheese and apples and ale, having worked past the dining hour, taking a book with her to read. She found herself a small table on the upper level which was marginally quieter than the floor below. She waved at Bull, Dorian, and the Inquisitor, who were sitting nearby; “Come and join us, Seeker!” said Bull.

“Not tonight,” she called back, “I have a prior engagement,” and held up the book. They laughed and nodded—it was impossible to pry her away from her reading when she did not wish to be pried, and they all knew it—and she sat down with her back to them.

She did not pay attention and did not notice their conversation at first; but then something slowly penetrated. They were speaking of... the rituals of romance? She drank a little ale and stared at the page, seeing nothing.

“Oh, it is a thing of great beauty, in Tevinter,” said Dorian. “Young couples meet under the watchful eyes of their seniors, and wish they could be somewhere else. With someone else. It is _very_ romantic.”

“Oh, come on,” laughed Bull. “You can’t tell me there aren’t romances somewhere in all that, even if they aren’t part of your breeding program.”

“Ah, well, those are _very_ well hidden indeed,” said Dorian. “But there are of course things that one must do if one pursues a forbidden love. The dropped handkerchief or glove with the initials, for the beloved to tuck hidden into a secret drawer. The flower with a petal or two removed, representing the hopelessness of the passion; the number of missing petals is intended to symbolize the degree of hopelessness, or the number of days since the beloved was last seen, whichever is more appropriate, though of course there must also be some degree of flexibility that takes into account the particular flowers available in any given season. And it is traditional to wear something in the lover’s colours, though this can be difficult to coordinate, given the strictures of fashion.”

“And is that what you would do to show your love?” asked the Inquisitor, with apparent interest.

“Certainly not,” said Dorian. “I am not subject to popular whims. My romantic gestures are personal and far more creative. And in general, not suitable to discuss in public.”

“Mmmm,” said Bull in a deep expressive rumble. Cassandra thought she could feel the smile in it through the soles of her boots.

“I won’t ask Bull what romantic gestures are used by the Qunari,” said Adaar drily, “as the Qun rejects romance in favour of efficient breeding.”

“Oh, that’s true enough,” said Bull. “At least in general. But it happens sometimes. For someone you really care about, whether it’s your friend or maybe sometimes something a little bit more, there is this old tradition. You find a dragon’s tooth, break it in half, and you each wear a piece. Then, no matter how far apart life takes you, you’re always together.”

“So those matching necklaces Dorian made from the tooth of that last dragon we killed,” said Adaar slowly, “actually mean something.”

“They mean I’ve got a bigger tooth than most dragons,” said Bull in a self-satisfied tone.

“Of course you _would_ bring up _size_ ,” said Dorian, rolling his eyes. “And what about Tal-Vashoth mercenaries? What is traditional in mercenary bands?”

There was a short silence, during which time Cassandra found herself holding her breath, and then Adaar said, “ _Romance_ is not common in the mercenary bands I have belonged to. There is no tradition that I have heard of.”

“Ha!” said Bull. “All those teachings from the Qun, still hanging on.”

“Maybe,” said Adaar.

“But then what would you do, without a tradition?” said Dorian. “Make up your own? Oh, how wonderful! You could choose anything you liked, and no one would be able to tell you you were doing something wrong, or inappropriate. So tell us, dear Inquisitor, if you wanted to be romantic, what would you do?”

“I would hire you to tell me what to do,” said the Inquisitor, and Bull laughed.

“Oh no, you can’t get away with that,” insisted Dorian. “What would _you_ do?”

Cassandra turned a page. It would not do to look like she was not reading.

“I don’t know,” said Adaar eventually. “I suppose I would try to find out what the person liked, and do that for them. Bring them things they liked.”

“That’s awfully _general_ ,” said Dorian disparagingly.

“Is it?” said Adaar. “I don’t know much about how to do romance right. I just thought that you would want to make them as happy as you could, that you would do anything to make them smile, so that you could watch and know that you had given them something that mattered to them, because you loved them and could think of nothing but wanting to make them happy. Because it’s that person that matters, not some idea of what is traditional in romancing them.”

“My dear Inquisitor,” the mage said happily, “you _are_ a romantic. And you have been hiding it from us for all this time!”

Adaar grunted, an annoyed sound. “Fucking ass.” Cassandra heard the sound of a tankard hitting a table, the scrape of a chair. “I’m off,” said the Inquisitor. “Try to stay sober enough to find your way to your quarters, will you?”

“I’ll find my way to _someone’s_ quarters, anyway,” said Bull cheerfully, and then grunted and laughed; evidently Dorian had clouted him.

Cassandra finished her meal and took her book and returned to her loft, where she sat and thought. There was a great deal to think about.

What Adaar had said had astonished her in the way it had gotten so accurately to the heart of romance; coming from the Inquisitor, who was so very unromantic, it was unexpected. _But it is exactly right. It’s the person that matters, and every person is different. The rituals, the traditions, simply provide a common language. And if the rituals and languages are not shared,_ she thought, teasing out the idea, _you must make your own_.


	6. The Courtship

Cassandra had become even more mystifying than she had been before; Adaar was entirely baffled. The Seeker said little, but she was increasingly attentive. She touched Adaar, but not in a demanding or overly affectionate way, it was simply the same wordless communication that they had fallen into when they travelled alone together. The touching was not the issue, and did not distress Adaar; it was familiar. In general, Cassandra was comfortable to be around.

_Which is a good thing_ , thought Adaar, _because she is always_ here.

It was a little unnerving.

*          *          *

Do things for the other person. Bring them things they liked. It sounded so simple, but it was not. What did Adaar like? Cassandra realized that she was not quite sure. Adaar rarely expressed strong enthusiasm for anything—apple tarts were a rare exception—and so it was hard to know the difference between things that she simply found pleasant and those that she truly loved.

She must find out.

She began to watch Adaar, trying to work out from the slightest reactions what she was thinking, what she was feeling. She listened to the things that were said, and not said, carefully. She tried to stop herself from making assumptions, something she knew she did far too often, and to simply observe.

Yes. She smiled fairly frequently; but this smile, the one that she gave when she looked at a plate of apple tarts, was very slightly different. She couldn’t put her finger on what the difference was, but she knew it when she saw it. And yes, this frown was thinking, and it was not so different from the frown when she was angry, but now, with the message that had come about the loss of troops, this was very slightly different. And now her face seemed expressionless, but it was not, not quite. It was in the eyes.

The differences were very, very subtle, and most people probably would not see them. But Adaar was not quite so inexpressive as she had seemed. She had tells, as Leliana had put it. She could not always read Adaar; a good deal of the time she was still an enigma. But she was learning. She was getting better at it.

The Inquisitor’s face did soften when Cassandra did her a kindness. It pleased her when Cassandra brought small gifts like the tarts. The Seeker was careful; she did not offer too much, for she sensed that it would carry a burden of meaning that Adaar would not like. She had seen it on her face when a noble sent something that was more than should have been expected. “It’s a bribe, or an insult,” she said. “Either way, he won’t get what he wants from us.”

That was one of the times when she had been expressionless, but looking back, Cassandra realized that she had been angry.

No, it would not do to do too much.

She did not give a name to what she was doing. She did not give flowers, or sweets, none of the things that were more generally seen as romantic. She did not want to think about what she was doing. She only wanted to do something for Adaar, in recompense for the ill treatment she had given her before.

*          *          *

Was the woman _courting_ her? Could it be possible?

Cassandra had begun to do her small kindnesses. Nothing significant; just taking a piece of the Inquisitor’s armour to mend when on expedition, as she had when they had travelled alone together, or bringing her a few of her favourite pastries from the kitchens when she worked late into the night and missed dinner. And if Adaar remarked on something, she remembered. She had commented once on an ale that she was particularly fond of, and now there was a keg that Cabot kept at the tavern. She would not have known that Cassandra had been the one to encourage him to bring it in, if the barkeep had not said something.

Nothing improper, and she never seemed to want anything in return, she never waited to see what Adaar’s reaction would be. She simply made the gesture matter of factly, and then moved on to something else.

It was almost unnoticeable, but Adaar noticed.

She remembered the conversation she had had with Bull and Dorian in the Herald’s Rest; Cassandra had been nearby, though apparently engrossed in her book. Had she heard what Adaar had said about what she would do if she wished to be romantic? Certainly it seemed to fit, but...

Adaar was thoroughly confused. If had been anyone else, she would have been fairly certain, even though the actions were not particularly romantic, not in the way that the things Cassandra had described as romantic were. But Cassandra had made it painfully clear that she did not want what Adaar offered, and that what had occurred between them was a mistake that she regretted. Why would she court her now? It made no sense. She must be misunderstanding what was going on. Cassandra wished to be friends as they had been; doubtless that was all it was. Adaar was not about to make a fool of herself; once burned, twice shy, as the saying went. And she had been burned more than once.

*          *          *

“Well,” said Dorian with immense satisfaction, “you do seem to have someone’s full attention, Inquisitor. A very _focused_ attention, if I may say so.”

Adaar grunted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? It’s hard to miss to anyone of a romantic mind. Unless perhaps you’re a grumpy unromantic Vashoth who thinks of nothing but her duty. But I think you think about considerably more than that.”

Adaar grunted irritably. She couldn’t think of a single response, honest or not, that would not implicate her. Maybe if she said nothing he would take the hint.

But Dorian never took hints once he had set on something he considered spicy. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” said Adaar, before she could catch herself.

“Nothing?” said Dorian, weighting it with all the meaning, all the disbelief and horror and amusement that one word could carry.

“Nothing,” said Adaar firmly.

*          *          *

Cassandra’s attention was almost entirely on the Inquisitor, but her determined attentiveness toward Adaar was beginning to affect how she saw other people as well. She had begun to notice things about them. The occasional tenderness that showed in Leliana’s eyes when she looked at Josephine. The fierce loyalty that underlaid Dorian’s scathing wit. The pride in Varric’s voice when he told stories of Hawke, and the affection when he spoke of Merrill; they were not just stories about colourful people.

It was eye-opening, and took her entirely by surprise. She began to think that perhaps she had not really ever watched, ever _listened_ to people in the past, so much as told herself stories about them. Did everyone do that?

She no longer tried not to think about what she was doing; she had been paying so much attention to others that she could not pretend to herself. She wanted... she wanted the things she had thought the Inquisitor could not give her. She wanted to find out if she had been wrong. She wanted, very carefully, to open a door a little, and invite Adaar through. She did not think that Adaar was likely to open such a door on her own, and given her past experience would probably not react well if the door was abruptly thrown open with a bold invitation.

So. She would do what was needed, and do it for as long as was needed, until Adaar acknowledged the door’s existence in some way, whether to open it further or firmly close it.

*          *          *

“Fucking Qunari bonehead cunt,” snarled the prisoner, spitting in Adaar’s direction. “The Elder One will eat you alive.”

It was possible that the Inquisitor didn’t even hear him, being busy instructing one of the scouts; certainly if she did she did not acknowledge it. But Cassandra heard, and the man was flat on his back, gasping and bloody and clutching his face, before she even had time to think about it. That did make Adaar raise an eyebrow.

Perhaps she should not have been quite so hasty in her reaction. But it was not as if she had planned it; the blow was simply the culmination of too often hearing such things said about the Inquisitor. She found that she could not be sorry for it. And it did at least fit her reputation for a quick temper. But she had better walk away before she did any more.

“Good on you,” said Sera under her breath as she passed. “She can’t do much without causing trouble, so it’s up to us, right? Gotta look out for each other.”

The rogue was watching her with a grin and a glint in her eye. Cassandra made a disgusted noise and kept walking, hoping she was not flushing. Sometimes Sera was far too good at reading her.

_We tell stories about ourselves_ , thought Cassandra later, _without even realizing it, and then we have to deal with the consequences when others believe them_. She was a story in other people’s eyes. She had known that for years, and hated it; the Hero of Orlais was never her. But that was a tale made to entertain people, and it did not have to be her.

The Hero of Orlais was certainly not her. The Hero of Orlais would not have struck a prisoner. 

Her words and actions told a story too, and the people around her believed it, those who saw and heard. The quick temper, the violence, the humourlessness, the inability to bend and change. _But then_ , she thought wryly, _I too believed the story I told about myself. I think that only a few, Leliana and a handful of others, have ever seen beyond that story—perhaps better than I have seen myself_.

And what story did she tell Adaar? Too much, and not enough. _I think that it has been a story that is confusing at best_.

*          *          *

_She_ must _be courting me_ , thought Adaar, in a haze of disbelief, _in a rather delicate and idiosyncratic way_. It still made no sense, but there seemed no other explanation possible. It was more than Cassandra did for other people she liked. It was different, by some indescribable degree.

The initial discomfort of not knowing what Cassandra intended had passed; the Seeker had not escalated her behaviour awkwardly, but simply continued with it as if it were a normal part of their relationship. Perhaps it was. It was very much like the time they had spent alone together out in Crestwood. It was warm and comfortable as an old pair of gloves that had adjusted to fit perfectly, to fit like a second skin, and she found herself relaxing into it. _This is as it should be_ , said the Seeker’s touch on her arm, the hand on her shoulder. _This is as it must be_.

But Adaar did not know what to do about Cassandra. She was torn; she thought she understood what the Seeker was trying to communicate, but she could be wrong. She did not know how to answer. They had found a kind of friendship again, an easiness with each other, and she did not want to lose it. There was a part of her that desperately wanted to respond, and another part that said _No, don’t_ , and said it very emphatically.

She could try to answer in kind. Perhaps that would shake something loose? And so she let her hand rest on Cassandra’s shoulder a little too long. Let their arms touch when they played Wicked Grace at the tavern with the others. _It’s all right_ , said the touch. _I don’t mind. I wouldn’t mind if you went a little further_.

At least she hoped that was what it said.

*          *          *

There was a warmth that had not been there for a long time. Adaar had not closed the door, and she had not exactly opened it, but she seemed to be looking through the gap with interest. It was hopeful. And hoping, Cassandra began to think more romantically.

It was surprisingly difficult to acquire a dragon’s tooth. It didn’t help that she was trying to be subtle about the acquisition, and not let anyone know what she was doing. One would think that it would be reasonably simple, given Adaar’s predilection to killing dragons and the number of times that she herself participated in the hunt, but she wanted a High Dragon’s tooth, and it seemed that Dagna had cornered the market on those.

“We have our orders,” said Harding, who was in charge of those tasked with dealing with the remains of the most recent dragon. She looked exceedingly nervous, but she was adamant. “All the teeth are to go to the Arcanist. You can argue with her: I’m not going to risk her getting pissed at me if one went missing. Have you seen what she can _do_?” And all the arguments that a dragon might have _lost_ a tooth could not budge her.

She was going to have to speak to Dagna. _Maker_.

Cassandra had had encounters with the Arcanist, of course, when she had had weapons runed. She found the dwarf’s thought processes unnerving. She did not seem to have nearly the respect for magic, for weapons—for anything, really—that she should have. And she had a singleminded focus, leavened with unpredictable distraction, that was not at all easy to deal with.

“I need all those teeth,” she said when Cassandra asked about the possibility of acquiring one from her. “Do you have any idea what I can _do_ with them?” And then she launched into a complicated and esoteric explanation that meant nothing at all to the Seeker.

“I only need one,” said Cassandra, when Dagna’s words ran down. “Surely you would not miss just one.”

“Not a chance,” said the dwarf cheerfully. “The only way I’d give you one would be if the Inquisitor ordered it. You can ask her if you are really determined.”

Cassandra stood baffled and stymied and upset. She could _not_ ask the Inquisitor to help with this. And she could not explain why that was impossible to the Arcanist.

Dagna was watching her shrewdly. “You don’t want one for the same reason Dorian did, by any chance?”

Cassandra felt her face flame. This was not something she wanted to talk about. Especially not with someone who was not even a friend. It was a private matter. But...

“Yes,” she muttered.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” said the dwarf. “Do you want me to split it for you? I can put the halves in nice settings, if you like.”

“Thank you,” said Cassandra, almost speechless.

“Do you want anything particular for the setting?”

“I don’t know,” said Cassandra desperately. It had not occurred to her that this would be so complicated, or involve decisions. “Something... beautiful?”

It looked like Dagna was trying not to smile. “I know just the thing. An old pattern in silverite. I’ll make it so they can be worn as necklaces, or kept in stands. I’ll make matchings stands as well, and find some chains. I’ll have it all ready as soon as I can. Come back... oh, at the end of next week.”

“Dagna,” said Cassandra, who had suddenly had a frightening thought, “please do not mention this to anyone. Not even to Sera. Not until...” She swallowed. “Not unless it is clear that the gift is welcome.”

“I don’t think you have to worry,” said Dagna with a grin, a response which in its way was utterly terrifying. “But all right. I’ll keep my mouth shut until it’s all sorted out.”

“Thank you,” said Cassandra fervently, and fled.

*          *          *

If Cassandra did mean to court her—if she wanted more than friendship—she might need to be given more encouragement. Something might need to be said. This was an awful thought. Cassandra had been very clear on the things she wanted from a lover, but Adaar did not have the slightest idea how to behave romantically; the things lovers did in books seemed impossible when she thought of doing them herself. And the things that they said—no. Impossible.

Perhaps she did not have to use her own words. Cassandra liked romantic novels. Was there something she could do with that? She couldn’t think of anything. It was not as if crashing into a tavern and knocking everyone in it senseless, only to carry off the object of one’s affections, was a practical thing to do in Skyhold.

The Seeker also liked poetry; she carried it with her on expeditions, reading and re-reading the same well-thumbed pages. Perhaps the words of a poet might serve in place of her own? Adaar began to surreptitiously ransack the shelves of Skyhold’s libraries—both the main one and the ancient one in the depths—in search of books of poetry, and to read through them. Love poetry. That was what she needed. Something elegant and tasteful, but clear in its passion. Yes. It was at least a starting point.

*          *          *

The Inquisitor was in Val Royeaux, doing diplomatic things with Josephine, when the Valo-Kas came to Skyhold. They came, they said, to negotiate with the little gold human as to what contracts they might take for the Inquisition. In the absence of both Adaar and Josephine, they chose to wait.

Cassandra heard about it when Cullen complained to her; they had settled in a camp next to the main body of troops and then into the Herald’s Rest, announcing that they intended to relax and enjoy themselves until the Inquisitor and Lady Ambassador returned. “But their idea of relaxation is—well,” said Cullen, “the infirmary has been busy.”

This was because the Chargers, who regarded the tavern as their home turf, were not impressed by the invasion of boisterous Tal-Vashoth, and inclined to protect their territory. But the Valo-Kas were not inclined to give ground to a company whose commander was Ben-Hassrath, even one who already had possession of the territory, and even if, as they had been told, he was Ben-Hassrath no longer. For three days there was a great deal of jostling and the occasional broken head while The Iron Bull and Shokrakar ostentatiously ignored each other. On the fourth night there was an arm-wrestling competition started by the Chargers against all comers; the Valo-Kas could not resist. For a time it looked like the competition would devolve into a full brawl, but then Shokrakar challenged the Iron Bull.

Now that was something to quiet the tavern. No one challenged Bull, except occasionally some foolish newcomer, because no one had ever beaten him.

Bull won, but she made him work for it, which was unusual. By the end, when he slammed her wrist down, he was grinning, and so was she. “Round’s on me!” she roared, and settled into some hard drinking with her opponent.

Cassandra missed the arm wrestling, but only because she had forbidden herself to go to the tavern. She had wanted to go very badly; she was intensely curious about the Valo-Kas. If Adaar was truly like every other Valo-Kas, she had misjudged them badly when she had seen them in Lydes. But she did not want to seem too interested.

By the time she allowed herself to go for a drink on the fifth day, the two mercenary companies had come to a half-friendly accommodation, so things were relatively quiet. She got herself a tankard and started across the tavern to talk to Bull. There were some ideas she had about training that she wanted to discuss with him.

But Shokrakar had seen her, and hailed her. “Oy, Seeker!” Cassandra turned. The Tal-Vashoth was beckoning. “Come and sit with us.”

Cassandra hesitated. It was not as if she had maneuvered to set this up. She had met them before. It would be reasonable to accept the invitation. She took her tankard and slid onto the bench next between Shokrakar and another enormous mercenary who was introduced as Ashaad.

Cassandra was not generally good at small talk, but she had been around soldiers for most of her life, and knew how to prod them to talk so that she would not have to. She did not want to talk to Shokrakar and the others so much as she wanted to listen and observe. And so for a little while that was how it went; but Shokrakar also knew how to get people to talk, and after a time Cassandra found herself answering questions about the Inquisition, and the Seekers, and what being a Seeker meant. It all felt a little odd and disorienting, but she was by then on her third tankard of ale, more than she usually drank, and she found herself saying more than she generally did to strangers.

But there were things that she learned, as well. Shokrakar was quite willing to talk about old contracts, and Adaar’s part in them. They got into a fairly heated discussion of tactics with regard to one job, with Cassandra arguing that a different strategy could have achieved results more quickly, but as the Tal-Vashoth said, shrugging, they won in the end, so it didn’t really matter.

After a while she left them to their drinking and retired to her loft. She had enjoyed herself. She had enjoyed herself far more than she expected to. The Valo-Kas were brash and loud, but she could tell that they were a highly trained unit and had no doubt of their skill when they were in action. They told amusing stories, and told them well. They were good company.

She went back the next night, and the night after that. She told herself that it only made sense to learn what she could from the mercenaries before they left. She avoided thinking about the fact that she had never done the same with the Chargers, although she had of course drunk with Bull and Krem on occasion.

The Valo-Kas were vulgar and the language they used was appalling. It was not that she was incapable of such language herself; but they were so casual with it that it almost became meaningless. They were unabashedly carnal in their inclinations, and matter of fact about it. Sometimes the things they said, whether the open comments on sexuality or their opinions of people and politics, shocked her; they did not trouble to censor themselves around her. She supposed that this was a compliment, and she held her tongue and tried to stop herself from reflexively judging. Most human companies were likely similar; it was just that she had not spent much time with them as an equal. Seekers held an elevated position in relation to the rank and file, somewhat equivalent to officers, and soldiers behaved differently around officers. But for some reason the Valo-Kas were treating her almost as one of themselves.

She might disagree with some of their ideas, but there was thought behind the things they disagreed about; they were not stupid. They were, in fact, very much like Adaar. She found herself appreciating them despite the way they unsettled her, and defended them against the opinions of others, to the surprise of everyone including herself. “I cannot believe that they have found a friend in you,” said Cullen one day. “I would have thought they would have irritated in you in every way possible.”

“They do irritate me, and often,” she replied. “But they are interesting. I like them.”

It was true. She thought that if they were to stay around she could become friends with Shokrakar; she had come to respect the Valo-Kas commander very much. They were already friends of a sort, after only a week or two, and sometimes found a small table to themselves in order to talk more seriously about what was happening in Thedas and what the Inquisition hoped to do about it.

The Valo-Kas touched each other a great deal. She had noticed that in Lydes, but now she was not distracted by the fact that they were touching the Inquisitor—touching Adaar—and she realized that there was more to it than she had realized. It was sensuality—yes, that was there, in part, between some—but it was also simple affection. And... “What does it mean when you touch each other?” she said quietly to Shokrakar.

The Tal-Vashoth gave her a level look. “Adaar didn’t tell you?”

“No,” said Cassandra. “I did not ask her.”

Shokrakar finished her drink, yelled at one of her people to bring her another from the bar. “Signal code,” she said. “Using it all the time keeps us in practice for when we need it.”

“I have heard of such things,” said Cassandra. “I imagine that it is very useful.”

“Yes,” said Shokrakar. “Get Adaar to teach you. We’ll make you an honorary Valo-Kas.” And she grinned.

It was a joke, but Cassandra knew that it was also a very great compliment.

*          *          *

The mercenaries had been in Skyhold for almost two and a half weeks when Adaar finally returned. She heard about it from Leliana, who had come down to the lower bailey to meet them. “Your Valo-Kas have come to Skyhold, Inquisitor,” the woman said. “They want to work out contracts with our Ambassador.”

“Ah!” said Josephine, “how lovely! I will be most delighted to meet them.”

“I am certain that you will find the experience interesting,” said the spymaster with a twitch of her lips.

They had come in late and they had been in contact to some degree by messenger birds, so there was no need for a formal War Table meeting until the morning. Adaar apprised Leliana of a few details that the spymaster asked for, and then she was free. “Your friends will be in the Herald’s Rest, Inquisitor,” said Leliana as she headed back toward her tower.

They were not hard to spot; they had taken two of the biggest tables and filled them. “Adaar!” roared Shok when she caught sight of her, and a cheer went up. “Get your fat ass out of that seat, Meraad, and let the Inquisitor sit!”

It was only when she was settling into the gap that Meraad had good-temperedly vacated with a thump on her back that she saw who was sitting next to Shokrakar, dwarfed by the size of the mercenaries around her. She had opened her mouth to say something, and it went straight out of her head. She recovered quickly, but the glint in Shokrakar’s eye told her that her old commander had not missed it. “Made yourself at home, I see,” Adaar said, and nodded at Cassandra. “Seeker.”

“it is good to see you safely back, Inquisitor,” said Cassandra, with a half smile. She looked completely relaxed. Adaar tried desperately to make sense of her presence, failed, and gave up trying.

“The keep seems in good shape,” she said to the company at large. “You can’t have been here long.” They jeered, and someone cuffed her.

Someone else shoved a tankard in her hand and she drank deeply. “We’ve been waiting for you and the little gold human,” said Shok. “Got to work out some contracts with her. Now you’re back, we’ll be doing that and then on our way.”

“Wasted enough time drinking and brawling?” said Adaar with a grin. The Valo-Kas partied hard, but Shok had a handle on just how long it could go on before discipline started to slide.

“We haven’t been wasting time,” said Shok with a smug smile. “We’ve been telling stories about you.”

Shit. There was nothing to do but brazen it out. “Only the most outrageous and unbelievable ones, I hope,” she said.

“Oh, only the best! That whorehouse in Starkhaven that they found you in, when the Guards tried to throw us out of the city....”

Oh, _fuck_. Of all the stories Shok could have told, it had to be that one.

“I am not certain I should believe _all_ of it,” said Cassandra thoughtfully, looking entirely unruffled. “Was it really five whores, seven bottles of the best Antivan brandy, and two entire squads of guards?”

“I’m not sure _I_ should believe all of it,” said Adaar, and buried her face in her tankard. If this was going in the direction it seemed to be going in, she had no intention of facing it sober, and had a lot of catching up to do.

Cassandra stayed for a little while longer, then took her leave, clapping Shok on the back and saying something to her that made her laugh. “I will leave you to catch up with your friends,” she said to Adaar, touching her shoulder for a moment. She was smiling. A small smile, but a smile nonetheless. _I am glad you are home_ , said the hand on her shoulder.

The world had gone mad.

They drank on, talked on, late into the night. Adaar was tired, and in the end nursed her drinks; she knew she needed to be clear headed in the morning for the War Table meeting. But drunk or sober or somewhere in between, it was good to see her friends, good to talk, good to touch. Everyone had something to say to her, and they were the last in the tavern, and Cabot was staring at them balefully. It was well past the tavern’s normal closing time. The Valo-Kas were still boisterous, but they were slowing down, and conversations were becoming less general.

“I need sleep,” said Adaar, sliding her chair back. “And Cabot needs to close up.” But Shokrakar reached across the table and caught her arm, pulling her head close.

“That little sharp human, she’s a true warrior,” said Shok quietly. From Shok, that was high praise indeed. “You got her, you keep her.” She was grinning, but her eyes were serious and far too perceptive.

“I _don’t_ have her,” said Adaar, scowling.

Shok simply looked at her. “Oh yes you do.” And her fingers made the sign that could mean _yes_ , or _truth_ , or _do it_.

*          *          *

The tavern seemed strangely quiet after the Valo-Kas left, and Cassandra found that she missed their company. Unlike some of the Inquisitor’s inner circle, she did not habitually go there to drink; the time she’d spent with the mercenaries was an anomaly.

On the third night after their departure she found herself wandering into the Herald’s Rest. She was not quite sure what she intended; she simply felt restless and was looking for a distraction. Adaar was sitting in a corner talking with Blackwall—Thom Rainier—and Sera; her eyes came up and met Cassandra’s and she gave a nod that was an invitation. Feeling tense, Cassandra got a tankard from Cabot and joined them, sliding into the space beside Adaar. There were few people who would sit with Rainier now, and she herself wanted no more to do with him than she must. But Adaar was there, and had asked.

His eyes met hers briefly, and she reluctantly gave him the slightest of nods. “Seeker Cassandra,” he said, and then Sera caught his arm, pulling his attention back. She was arguing about something with him, apparently. Disguises. It seemed an unfortunate topic of conversation, all things considered.

Adaar leaned forward, elbows on the table, and in doing so her arm came to rest against Cassandra’s. The Seeker could feel the warmth through the fabric of her sleeve. No one had crowded her since the Valo-Kas left; no one else was big enough to take up the same amount of room except Bull, and she had not drunk with him. “Don’t shave it,” she said to Rainier. “If you are no longer hiding, the beard doesn’t make any difference. And it meant something to you, didn’t it?”

Rainier looked at her and slowly nodded. “I am used to it,” he said. He stood then, nodded to them, and said to Sera, “I’m going to the refectory to get something to eat.”

“I’ll go too,” she said with alacrity. “They had some of those honeycakes earlier. Likely have more to be scarfed.” She grinned at Adaar and Cassandra, and followed him out the door.

The other two sat in silence, drinking. It was not uncomfortable. Their arms still touched. Eventually Cassandra said, “I like your Valo-Kas.” She felt the weight of Adaar’s gaze turn on her.

“It looked like you’d been drinking with them before.”

“Yes,” agreed the Seeker. “Quite a few times, after they and the Chargers had stopped brawling. Between the two companies they had Cullen in quite a state.”

Adaar snorted.

“I enjoyed their company a great deal,” said Cassandra, staring at her mug. “I was very wrong about them.”

Adaar was still watching her. But she said only, “I am glad that you made friends with them. They are my family.”

“Yes,” said Cassandra. “I see that. They are very much like you.” She said nothing for a moment, and then, “I have made mistakes about many people in my life, mistakes that I should never have made. I am glad that in this case I have been able to learn better.”

*          *          *

It was late when Cassandra climbed the stairs to her bedroll, and she was tired. But in the light of the candle, she saw that there was something on her pillow.

A flower—one perfect rosebud—and under it a piece of paper.

Her hands unexpectedly unsteady, she knelt and lifted them and saw writing, and read:

_You do not have to be good._

_You do not have to walk on your knees_

_for a hundred miles through the desert repenting._

_You only have to let the soft animal of your body_

_love what it loves._

 

It struck her like a blow; she was breathless with the force of it. _Now_ , said the thing in her gut, coiled and ready. _Now_ , said her hands, nerveless and scarcely feeling the paper they held. _Now_ , said her feet, already beginning to descend the stairs again.

The Inquisitor was not in her quarters. Bewildered, Cassandra looked around. Had she misunderstood? Surely not. But there was no sign of Adaar.

Cole was on the landing of the stairs up to the Great Hall when she emerged, and he was watching her. “Cassandra,” he said, and she stopped for a moment, uncertain. He rarely spoke so directly to anyone. “Frightened, finding comfort, not here, memories are too harsh, somewhere safer,” he said intensely. “Somewhere warm, green, growing. Waiting, watching, wondering, for one who can change everything.” His eyes were pale and for once focused entirely on her.

And then she understood. “Thank you, Cole,” she said, and he smiled. _Yes_.

*          *          *

At that time of night the gardens were very quiet. Most had gone to bed, knowing that they would need to be up early, and the air had cooled considerably so that it was no longer a pleasant place to linger. Occasionally a runner from the battlements crossed the quadrangle with some urgent message, but for the most part it was quiet, and as far as Adaar knew she was alone.

She was cold. She should have stayed in her quarters. Cassandra would not know where to find her, if she came looking for her at all. But she could not stay; the space was too small, too close, too crowded with the wrong kind of memories. At least here there was air. She could breathe. She had found herself a bench at the edge of the little gazebo, and sat staring at the grass below her feet.

There was nothing to do now but wait. She did not know when the Seeker would return to her loft, though she usually retired early. But Adaar would stay in the garden all night, if need be. She must trust that if Cassandra wanted to come to her, she would find her.

Footsteps. Boots on hard stone, echoing along the walkway. Coming closer. Then silence; the feet had moved to turf. Adaar, resting her elbows on her knees, kept her gaze firmly on her own boots and tried to remember how to breathe. If she had been wrong... the fierce ache flashed through her arms, her hands, lightning dissolving into something unnamable.

There was a slight rustling of grass, and then two booted feet came into her field of vision and stopped. Cassandra’s feet.

Just breathe.

And then a hand touched her cheek, and, startled, she looked up. Half of the Seeker’s face was in shadow; but the half that she could see did not look angry, did not look upset.

And the fingers were very gentle against her skin.

Cassandra moved a little closer, and light caught her jerkin. There was a rose tucked into it.

The hand slid along the angle of her jaw to her neck and down to her shoulder, and the Seeker leaned forward—she didn’t have to lean very far—and brushed her lips gently against Adaar’s. Adaar found that her hands had come to rest on Cassandra’s hips. They were warm and solid and moved slightly under her fingers as the Seeker shifted her weight. She had pulled back from the kiss and was simply looking at the Inquisitor now.

The line of her jaw caught the light and shadows moved on her throat. Heat flared in Adaar, and she wanted—wanted everything. But she was still not quite certain. The kiss had not been passionate. Was it a kiss of affection only? It didn’t feel like it, but...

_I want to make love to you_ , she tried to say then. But the words in her head were jumbled, burning, touched with fire and ice, slippery and elusive. “I want to love you,” she said instead, and then groaned internally, could she not even form a coherent sentence?

But Cassandra bent forward again, and this time the kiss was very clear in its meaning, in the touch of lips on hers, in the way they moved.

_Yes_ , they said.

*          *          *

It was late enough that there were few people in the Great Hall when they passed through it, Cassandra on the Inquisitor’s heels, and no one tried to stop them or speak with them. It was as if they were invisible, caught in a net of urgency and do-not-interfere. There were more stairs than there had ever been, and fewer, and the top of them came as a surprise. The fire on the hearth had burned down but still cast a little warmth. The light from it was enough to see, almost. Cassandra looked around and wondered if she had ever been in this room before. She felt as if she no longer knew where everything was, as if she might blunder into unseen obstructions if she moved too quickly.

The Inquisitor found a taper and lit a few candles, and then built up the fire, and the room came into focus. The methodical practicality of her actions was soothing, and Cassandra found herself relaxing slightly. Adaar threw back the quilts, then sat down on her bed and began to pull off her boots. Yes; that was a sensible thing to do. Cassandra cautiously sat down beside her and did the same. The very normalcy of it was slightly unnerving.

And then Adaar shifted, sliding back on the bed to lie against the pillows, and regarded her gravely, and put one hand out to touch her hip. The hand was still; it did not pull or push, it did not move, it was simply there, large and warm as the rest of her, and asking. _Will you?_ it said.

_Yes_. Cassandra moved, pulling her legs up on the bed and turning to slide into the curve of Adaar’s arm, and began to kiss her again.

*          *          *

This was not like the other time, months ago. That had been urgent and rough, muddled by too many of the wrong emotions. This was slow and sensual. When Cassandra was not wound in a tense ball of aggressive fear and need, it seemed, she was not in a hurry at all; she kissed with full attention and complete focus. Adaar wrapped both arms around her, letting one palm rest on the small of the Seeker’s back, and the other on her flank. She could feel the small movements in Cassandra’s hips as she shifted a little more above her, and the way her ribs moved as she breathed.

And her mouth. Adaar had spent far too much time thinking about what it would feel like to have Cassandra’s lips against hers again, but this went beyond anything she had imagined. The Seeker teased, light kisses, and then teased more, lips and teeth pulling at Adaar’s lips, and then sliding open-mouthed along the line of Adaar’s jaw, breath warm and tickling, and then back to her mouth again. _Yes, oh yes_. Adaar let it go on for quite some time, returning the kisses in kind—it was delightful, after all—and then somewhat hazily decided it was time to do some teasing of her own. She pressed the tip of her tongue briefly against Cassandra’s lip, then again in a different spot, then again, the lightest of flickering touches. _What about this?_

The response was entirely satisfactory. Cassandra shifted abruptly, moving upward a little, weight on her elbows, one leg coming to rest between Adaar’s and her hands moving to cradle the Vashoth’s face, steadying her, and her mouth opened against Adaar’s, and—

_Very_ focused attention. The slightest taste of brandy. A tongue sliding and exploring, delicate and still teasing. Hot breath against her own mouth when they broke momentarily, coming up for air, and then again, and again. The slow movement of hips in time with the pulse of their mouths against each other.

Cassandra Pentaghast was very, very good at kissing, and was evidently quite prepared to spend a good deal of time keeping her skills up.

But Adaar was burning, and after a time she wanted more. She let one hand slide up, slid it between them; in response Cassandra lifted her mouth away and raised her body a little. Adaar’s hand came to rest at her collar, at the fastenings of her jerkin. _May I?_

The most infinitesimal nod, and the Seeker shifted to straddle the Inquisitor, sitting up, and Adaar’s fingers began to fumble with the fastenings, and when they finally had all come loose she pushed the jerkin off Cassandra’s shoulders—the Seeker moved to let it fall—and then tugged at her shirt, pulling it free from her breeches, catching the fabric in her hands and pulling. Cassandra shifted and shrugged and it came off over her head and was tossed aside. The breast binding came free last, and then—then there was only skin under her hands.

Cassandra’s body was familiar to her after all the time they had spent together on expedition—how could it not be?—but this, this was different. Now she was touching it. There was the smoothness of skin over hard muscle, the unexpected tender softness in certain places, the ridges and roughness of scars. The soft fullness of breasts against her palm—the sound of breath inhaled sharply, _yes_ —the hard nipples nudging her fingers. This was a different mapping of terrain, and Adaar intended to leave no place unexplored.

But Cassandra’s hands had been working at the fastenings of her jacket as well, and at what lay underneath, the scarf and the laces of the shirt, until all had been loosened; but they could not be pulled off while she was lying down, and the next sound was impatient. Adaar grinned and surged upright, and _Yes_ , said Cassandra’s hands, tugging, hurrying, and then she too was free of all the layers of clothing. She lay back, pulling the Seeker with her, skin against skin, and dizzy and breathless with it.

And now Cassandra was kissing her again, palms laid against her cheeks, mouth claiming hers. Adaar let her hands run over bare skin, feeling the subtle shift and play of muscles, the quivering pressure against her belly, the strength coiled above her. _Touch me_ , the movement said, and then as she let her hands run along the Seeker’s sides, a little more pressure along the edges of her breasts, a little more movement. _Yes, oh yes_.

More. This was not enough. She rolled, taking Cassandra with her, so that they lay on their sides, tangled together. The Seeker did not resist; there was a moment of shifting, of accommodating, that barely broke their kiss. But now Adaar could put her hands where she wanted to. _You are beautiful_ , they said, touching. _I could do this all day_.

Perhaps not all day. There were other things she wanted to do. She shifted again, a little over Cassandra now, moving slightly lower, and dropped her mouth to Cassandra’s breast, heard the Seeker’s breath hiss. _Oh yes. Let me find you, let me find the line that draws you together, the mouth, the hands, the long limbs, the centre of the world, and makes you dance. Let me find the perfection. Let this dance be mine_.

_Yes. Please._

She undid the fastenings of Cassandra’s breeches, tugged, and the Seeker lifted her hips, letting her slide them off, and then the stockings, and it was only the work of moments more to free herself of her own. She looked at Cassandra’s body, lying taut and beautiful beside her, the tension in her muscles, and ran her hand gently over the Seeker’s stomach, circling. _All right?_

_Yes_ , said the hand that covered hers, tugging it a little lower. _Please_.

She moved her leg, nudged Cassandra’s knees further apart, lowered her mouth again to Cassandra’s breast. She let her hand slide lower, felt trembling deep muscles and then coarse hair and warmth and then.... _oh Maker, you will make a believer of me yet._

Cassandra made the slightest of sounds, barely more than a breath, when Adaar touched her, and her hips rose to the Vashoth’s hand. Adaar kissed the line of her neck, feeling the pulse pounding under her lips, under her fingers, letting her teeth nip, feeling Cassandra shudder. Kissed down, down, across her breasts, the hard nipple under her tongue. Brought her hand up—was that a faint noise of protest?—and drew circles round the bud on the other breast with two wet fingers— _I want you, all of you_ —and then moved her mouth to take that nipple in. _And I will have you_.

That was definitely a sound, though it was half-stifled, but not of protest. Cassandra arched against her mouth, and her breath had gone ragged. Her arms had come round Adaar some time before, and now they clenched tightly, almost tight enough to interfere with breathing. _Damn you_ , they said. _Hurry_.

But Adaar was not to be rushed. Not now, not after so long. She wanted to savour every moment, the taste of salt and a touch of woodsmoke, the feeling of the soft skin at the joint of Cassandra’s thighs and the hard callouses on her hands, the heated dampness rising on skin, the sound of the changes in breathing, the smell of sweat and sex. All of it. _Soon_ , said her hands, soothing and provoking. _Not yet, but soon_.

Adaar shifted, moved, curving downward. Cassandra’s belly was hard with muscle, but it trembled under her cheek, her lips. _Please_. She stroked the inside of the Seeker’s thighs with her hand, and they moved apart. _Please. Here._ She slid down further, kissed the inside of Cassandra’s knee, felt the tense tremor.

She could smell the tart musk of Cassandra’s arousal, and suddenly she could no longer wait, no longer hold back. She _wanted_ , desperately. She moved, sliding down and shouldering under Cassandra’s legs, wrapped her arms around them, and sank her face between the Seeker’s thighs. _Want you. Now_.

The Seeker made a guttural sound deep in her throat, arching again, and one hand caught the back of Adaar’s head, sliding past the stump of her horn to clench in her hair. _Yes_ , it said. _Oh yes_.

Adaar took her time, exploring, trying different things and gauging reactions. _Is this good? Like this?_ She was perfectly, deliriously happy; she wanted nothing more than this, to lie between her lover’s legs and feel the woman respond to the touch of her mouth, her tongue, her fingers. _You are beautiful. I want to touch you, taste you. Everywhere. Beautiful. Don’t stop me. I need this, need you. Want you. Want to please you. Want to feel you under my tongue, shivering, yes, like this. Want to hear the sounds you can’t quite stop. Want the taste of you, the scent, I can never get enough. Never. Oh my heart, don’t ever stop me._

And Cassandra responded. _Like that. Yes, yes, just like that. Maker, don’t stop_. Adaar brought her to the edge, bucking, more than once, then backed off, until Cassandra’s body was rigid, breath harsh and strained. _Please_ , said the tight, continuous tremors in her muscles, the hand knotted in her hair. _Please. Now. Please_.

_Yes. Now._

*          *          *

There was pressure along the length of her, solid and warm. There was the hard muscle of a shoulder under her head, and fingers gently stroking the side of her face. Her breathing had finally dropped to something approaching normal. Perhaps she would be able to move again. She lifted her arm, caught the hand that had been gentling her in her own, and opened her eyes.

Adaar regarded her silently. Her face had relaxed into a very small, self-satisfied smile. “You look far too pleased with yourself,” said Cassandra. Her voice felt rusty, as if she had never used it before.

Adaar grinned. “I am happy,” she said simply.

Cassandra swallowed hard, disarmed and broadsided unexpectedly by emotion. “So am I.” She was still holding Adaar’s hand; she pulled it to her mouth and kissed the palm. She could smell herself on Adaar’s skin; it was arousing and strangely comforting. _So am I_.

When she looked again the smile on Adaar’s face had disappeared; she had no expression at all. But she was watching Cassandra with an intensity that saw nothing else, and her eyes were vulnerable.

Cassandra thought of all the things she could say, wanted to say. There was no need. She let go of Adaar’s hand and reached to touch her face, letting her fingers explore, running them over the planes of her cheeks, tracing the lines of the bones. There was a place at the root of her horn stumps, between horns and ears, that made her shiver; that was unexpected. _Is that all right?_ said her touch, hesitating, and Adaar growled and reached for her, then relaxed her grip as Cassandra’s fingers moved on.

She let her hands slide down further, tracing collarbones, then along the breastbone, skimming over ribs and then finding Adaar’s breasts. _Ah. Lovely._ She had never touched a woman, not like this. She was astonished not so much at how it felt—she knew her own body—but at the reaction it caused in her, the intense, almost painful spike of desire deep in her belly, the corresponding lurch somewhere in her chest, when the Inquisitor reacted to her touch, her breath changing and quickening.

But there was a strained tension in Adaar that did not feel quite right as Cassandra’s hands moved on her. What was it? It was not the tension of desire. It was a kind of distracted nervousness that warred with arousal. Cassandra did not know quite what it was, nor how to counter it.

She did the only thing she could think of to do. She stopped the movement of her hands, shifted, rising above Adaar, and began to kiss her again, and sank herself into the feeling of it. She put her hands to each side of Adaar’s face, cradling it lightly, holding it steady. _Let me_ , the kisses said. _Let me touch you. Let me show you what I feel. You are what I want. I was afraid, and I am afraid no longer. I want to show you my heart. I want to turn myself inside out, that you may know me._

_I want to love you._

And slowly, gradually, the strange tension began to ease. _Yes. Let me love you_.

She began eventually to touch Adaar again as she kissed her, stroking her sides and flanks and then her breasts, slowly learning the shape of her body. _Yes_ , said Adaar’s body now, uncomplicated wanting. Cassandra had moved to lie half over her, her thigh pressing between Adaar’s legs. Adaar had begun to move her hips; she could feel wetness against her leg. She could feel the wetness between her own legs, desire rising again, fierce and demanding. She pushed it down— _not yet_ —and kept on kissing the Inquisitor. She let her hand drift lower, and felt muscles tense, pulling back infinitesimally. _Ah_. This had not happened, before. This was new. She began to stroke Adaar’s flank again.

She did not try to puzzle it out. She went on instinct. She raised herself a little, caught Adaar’s arm from where it had wrapped around her, pulling it around until she could catch her hand, and then she drew that hand down between them, between her own legs. Adaar’s breath caught. Her own breath caught, unexpectedly, and she froze, and then moved her hips involuntarily. _Please_. Felt fingers slide against her, tilted against them. _Ah... yes. Yes, like that. Just like that_. She kissed Adaar hard. _Yes. I want you. I want you_.

For a little there was nothing but the feeling of Adaar’s mouth under hers, slow, languid kisses, and the feeling of Adaar’s fingers inside as she slowly moved against her hand. It was dreadfully distracting, but eventually she stopped kissing the Inquisitor and lifted her head to try to clear it and let her own hand slide down again, between Adaar’s legs. _I want to love you_.

A moment’s hesitation, then... _Yes_. Adaar pushed against her hand. _Please_.

Warmth, wetness, around her fingers, clenching. Fullness. _Maker_. She felt powerful, she felt helpless. It was too much; being inside Adaar, feeling Adaar inside her. She could no longer control the reactions of her body; it moved without her determination or guidance. She didn’t care. They were beginning to find a rhythm together, slow and steady. She managed to get enough control to kiss Adaar’s collarbone. Adaar changed her movement a little then, and she set her teeth on Adaar’s skin, barely stopping herself from biting hard, and panted against her breast. _Maker_ , she thought, uncaring for the blasphemy. _Don’t stop. Never stop_. Adaar was moaning under her, small breathy sounds that only roused her more, moving against the thrusts of her hand. She thought her heart would stop if they kept on. It would certainly stop if Adaar stopped doing what she was doing. She let her forehead drop against Adaar’s breast, feeling sweat-slick skin sliding between them. She was not certain where her skin ended and Adaar’s began, not sure whose heart thudded in her chest, didn’t care.

_Let me love you._

_Don’t stop._

*          *          *

Adaar, eyes shut, began to feel the world around her again. There was linen under her, damp and creased against her back. There was a pillow, twisted and only half under her head. She would have a kink in her neck if she wasn’t careful. She reached up with one strangely heavy hand and tugged it into place, then dropped the hand back where it came from.

Skin under her hand. Warmth. She let her hand slide up, then down, feeling the taut intricacy of powerful shoulders, the hard curve of muscle to either side of the backbone, the delicate fuzz of hair so fine as to be invisible in the small of the back, the swelling of hips.

After a time Cassandra moved, lifting her head, raising herself on her elbows. And then weight shifted again and a calloused thumb rubbed her cheek, just below her eye, finding wetness. “Adaar?” said Cassandra. Her voice was soft.

“It’s all right,” said Adaar, schooling her face. “It’s just...” She opened her eyes and mustered a smile. Cassandra was watching her. She looked worried. “It’s all right,” Adaar repeated. She put out a hand and touched Cassandra’s face, then followed the hand with her lips, and kissed her. _It’s all right_.

The kissing was softer now, the edge of harsh need gone, but still sensual, still a losing or loosening of oneself, and Adaar felt herself dissolving into it; there was nothing but the kiss and the feel of Cassandra’s mouth against hers. They broke again, eventually, and the Seeker had relaxed a little, no longer looking worried. She gave Adaar a half smile. “If you persist in kissing me like that you will turn me into a wanton woman, and then where will I be?”

“In my arms, I hope,” said the Inquisitor. “For as long as I can keep you there.” And then she felt Cassandra’s hand move a little, an involuntary reaction to her words. _Damn. I didn’t mean to say so much. Not out loud_.

Cassandra was not smiling now, but she was still looking at her. And then she pulled away, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed, standing, and began rummaging through the clothes that had been tossed away so carelessly. Adaar fell back, panicked, staring at the ceiling. _I’ve offended her somehow. Fuck. I should have kept my mouth shut_.

But the Seeker was sitting down again, the mattress shifting under her weight, reaching to pull the quilts up over both of them and sliding into the bed next to Adaar. She was not going anywhere after all. She reached out and caught Adaar’s hand, and pressed something into it; the Inquisitor’s fingers closed around it reflexively, and then she looked down.

She knew what it was the moment she saw it, and the sight, the understanding, shook her into immobility.

“If you will accept it,” said Cassandra in a somewhat strained voice, “I have the other half.”

If she would accept it?

It was not exactly a pounce. There was far too much emotion behind it for that playful word to be suitable. It was not exactly a leap; they were too close for the word to be applicable. But she had never moved faster in her life, and her mouth was on Cassandra’s, and her body was pressing the Seeker into the mattress. _Yes. Accepted._

Later, much later, they lay tangled together. Adaar’s head was on Cassandra’s shoulder; she thought the Seeker was dozing. They had spoken a little, and half slept, and spoken a little more, and made love again, and slept again. The sky was beginning to lighten, very slightly. They had had very little sleep, and would be tired for the rest of the day. Adaar didn’t give a damn. She still felt half dazed, but enormously happy. Her eyes were closed, her hand rested on the Seeker’s forearm, and her fingers moved repetitively, mindlessly tracing a simple pattern.

And then Cassandra moved her arm, shifting so that her hand came over Adaar’s, and she moved her fingers in exactly the same way.

Adaar’s head shot up, and she came up on one elbow, staring at Cassandra, who, now wide awake, stared back. The Seeker looked slightly alarmed. “Where,” said Adaar, “how—?”

“Shokrakar showed it to me,” said Cassandra, sounding a little nervous. “We talked about the finger code. It was the only word she showed me, and she wouldn’t say what it meant. She said...” Her voice trailed off. She swallowed, then, and said more clearly, “She said that it was a sign that I should use when there was only one person that I would want to say something to.”

They stared at each other. “It means love,” said Adaar, finally.

“I thought it might,” said Cassandra. She was beginning to smile. “Adaar—”

“My name,” she said, “is Esen.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Cassandra said fiercely, “Esen. _Esen_.” She reached up to catch Adaar’s head and pull her down into another kiss.

_Love me._

_Don’t stop._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Esen Adaar just kind of insinuated herself into my psyche one day and said, "Write me!" So I did. I really enjoyed getting into the head of an Inquisitor who isn't Trev; I had a lot of fun with her and hope you did too. 
> 
> I thought of just going with the default name of Herah but you know, I really dislike it, partly because of the awkwardness of putting Herah and Adaar together, which requires a glottal stop, and partly because it's too close to Sera. I read somewhere that Qunari names are or have some relationship to Turkish names—I have no idea whether it's true or not—so I looked at a list of Turkish women's names. Esen was said to mean "winding one," which I thought was appropriate for Adaar's journey, and I also liked the sound of it. 
> 
> Adaar being hit by a rock in the first scene doesn't happen in the game, but it does happen in storyboards for it, which are in the "The Art of DAI" book that I got for my birthday.
> 
> Pericat, as always, was a big part of this story. And as always, my very fervent thanks. She suggested the scaffolding scene when I was mired in a sea of clichés, as well as providing a number of other agile plot bunnies to chase. Peri also proofread and gave invaluable beta feedback, catching many consistency problems. My stories would all be so much less without her assistance. 
> 
> The poem quoted from is "Wild Geese," © Mary Oliver (from _Dream Work_ , published by Atlantic Monthly Press). The author was referenced in a blog I read, [Brain Pickings](https://www.brainpickings.org/), I went to check out her poetry, and there it was, and it was perfect. But since I put it in this fic I have seen it quoted in another fic and in an article. Wow—do we all read the same blog? Or is this just random amazing synchronicity?


End file.
